— E? 


.  :    ,    •  VV  ?. . 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


MY    DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS, 

AND     OTHER    STORIES. 


The  following  Stories  have  appeared  at  various 
times  in  "  Baily's  Magazine:" — 

"THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS," 
"WoN  BY  A  FLUKE." 


MY     PORTRAIT      IN      THE      ACADEMY 


MY 


DAY  WITH  THE  HOUNDS, 


otJjer  Stories. 


G.   FINCH    MASON, 

Author  of  "  Sporting  Sketches." 


W.   P.   SPALDINO,    43,    SIDNEY    STKEET. 


W.   KENT  &  CO.,   PATERNOSTER   ROW. 


TO 

MORGAN    S.  WILLIAMS, 

(Of  Aberpergwm) 

THIS     SMALL    COLLECTION    OF 
SPOETING  STOEIES 

IS   DEDICATED 
BY 

HIS  FRIEND, 

THE  AUTHOE. 


MY  DAY  WITH  THE  HOUNDS 

THE  FAYEE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS 

WON  BY  A  FLUKE     .  .  . 

THEEE  DEEBY  WEEK  SKETCHES 

THE  EUN  OF  THE  SEASON,  AND  ITS 
CONSEQUENCES   . 


PAGE 
1 

70 
134 
156 

175 


M313021 


PAOB 

MY  PORTRAIT  IN  THE  ACADEMY  .  frontispiece. 

LORD  WILLIAM  LOVELACE  (Late  Owner  of  "  Grey  Peter")     30 
MY  GROOM  CAUGHT  RED-HANDED         ...  40 

"GREY  PETER"  JUMPS  A  TRIFLE  BIG  54 

"COME  ON,  IT'S  NOTHING  OF  A  PLACE!"        .  .  55 

NEVER  HOLLOA  UNTIL  You  ARE  OUT  OF  THE  WOOD  56 

MY  SWELL  GROOM,  MR.  TWISTER        ...  84 

How  MUCH  AGAINST  "LA  PERICHSLE?"       .  .          109 

THE  PRELIMINARY  HURDLE       ...  110 

JOHNNIE  WINS!  .  .  115 

"KING   PIPPIN"    TAKING   HIS   MORNING   GALLOP  140 

"  KING  PIPPIN  "  GONE  TO  100  TO  1 ;   JOHN  THOMAS  is 

QUITE  "NONPLUSHED"         ....          143 

THE  CITY  AND  SUBURBAN         .  .  .  .153 

.  "  THE  REVEREND  "  (A  SKETCH  IN  THE  PADDOCK)     .          168 

NIMROD,  JUNR.  &  MR.  SMITH  GOING  TO  THE  MEET  .          180 

THE  MASTER        ......          183 

THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY       ....          186 

i 

Miss  LUCY  RIDES  A  TRIFLE  TOO  STRAIGHT    .  .          193 

CAD  BROWN  IN  DIFFICULTIES    .  209 


MY  DAY  WITH  THE  HOUNDS. 


"  WELL,"  says  my  friend  Tom  Lumley 
(Tom  is  staying  with  me  from  Saturday 
until  Monday),  puffing  a  cloud  of  smoke 
from  his  lips  and  straddling  his  legs  out  in 
front  of  my  smoking-room  fire,  until  they 
look  for  all  the  world  like  a  pair  of  com. 
passes — "well,  I  suppose  you'll  be  having 
a  turn  soon,  like  a  good  many  more  of  us, 
with  the  fox  or  the  stag,  shan't  you?" 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,  my  dear  fellow,"  I 
reply ;  "  not  if  I  know  it.  No  fox,  stag, 
hare,  or  any  other  nasty  animal  for  me  any 
more,  thank  you.  I've  had  a  turn  with  the 


2  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

foxhounds  once  in  my  life,  and  I'll  take 
precious  good  care  it  shall  be  the  last." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  roars  Tom.  "  By  Jove! 
you  must  have  had  a  choker  off.  Tell  us  all 
about  it ;  I'm  sure  it  must  be  worth  hearing. 
What  did  they  do  to  you?  Somebody  must 
have  ridden  over  you,  and  broken  a  rib  or 
two,  or — stay,  I  have  it ;  you've  had  a  day 
with  the  Squire  down  in  Tuckemupshire, 
ridden  over  a  hound,  and  been  well  bad- 
worded  and  asked  for  your  subscription  on 
the  spot.  I  know  the  old  Squire — nice 
clean -tongued  old  gentleman  when  anything 
goes  wrong.  But  do  explain  ;  how  was  it?" 

"  No,  no,"  I  reply  ;  "  it's  too  long  a  story. 
I  won't  tell  it  you  now,  but  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  will  do.  I  have  my  sporting  adventures 
all  scribbled  down  in  black  and  white,  and 
you  shall  have  the  manuscript  to  read  to- 
morrow, when  you  go  away  ;  then  you  can 
laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  like  by  yourself." 

"  Agreed,"  says  Tom,  "and  if  it's  amusing 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  3 

I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  give  it  to  a 
fellow  I  know,  of  a  literary  turn  of  mind. 
He'll  put  it  ship-shape,  perhaps  illustrate  it— 
for  he's  a  bit  of  an  artist  as  well — take  it  to 
a  publisher's,  and  make  some  coin  of  the 
realm  of  it.  Yes,  now  I  think  of  it,  Bryant 
de  Butcherbootes  is  the  very  man.  Poor 
devil!  he's  deuced  hard  up  too,  just  now. 
What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,'7  I  reply. 
"  Your  friend,  Mister — Mister  Blucherbootes  " 
("Butcherbootes,"  corrects  Tom) — "Butcher- 
bootes, yes — I  beg  his  pardon — of  course 
won't  put  my  real  name  in? " 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  says  Tom  ;  "  trust  him  for 
that.  That's  arranged,  then.  Don't  forget, 
old  fellow,  to  give  me  the  MS.  to-morrow 
morning.  I'll  ask  Butcherbootes  to  dinner  at 
the  "Fryingpan"  to-morrow  night,  and  hand 
it  over  to  him." 

That  settled  to  Tom's  satisfaction,  he  and  I 
smoke  another  cigar  apiece,  drink  another 


4  MY   DAY    WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

brandy-and-soda,  and  take  ourselves  off  to 
bed.  The  next  morning  we  journey  up  to 
town  by  the  Midland  Railway  bound  to  our 
respective  offices  in  the  city  ;  and  as  we  part 
company  at  Moorgate  Street,  I  blushingly 
entrust  my  MS.  into  Tom's  hands,  wonder- 
ing, as  I  wend  my  way  to  my  office,  how*  I 
shall  look  in  print  when  introduced  to  the 
world  by  his  accomplished  young  friend* 
Mr.  de  Butcherbootes. 

ENTR'ACTE. 

Written  by  Bryant  de  Butcherbootes. 

"  Conduit  Street,  2.30  A.M. 

"  OH  dear,  I'm  horribly  sleepy.  Good  dinner 
Tom  Lumley  gave  us  to-night  at  the  "  Frying- 
pan."  By  the  way,  there's  that  precious 
manuscript  of  that  friend  of  his ;  hope  I 
haven't  lost  it — no,  here  it  is.  Heavens! 
what  a  business-like  fist  the  fellow  writes ;  the 
careful  way  all  the  £'s  are  crossed  and  the  i's 
dotted ;  look  like  &  s.  d.,  somehow  or  another. 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  O 

Wonder  whether  he'd  lend  me  fifty  pounds  if 
I  were  to  ask  him  ?  Bet  a  pony  he  wouldn't. 
Cautious  chaps  these  city  gents.  Tom  says 
he's  an  out-and-out  muff,  but  not  half  a  bad 
fellow ;  drinks  and  cigars  good,  cook  bad, 
and  has  a  very  pretty  wife — all  those  sort  of 
fellows  have,  wish  I  had.  Happy  thought — 
read  a  bit  of  it  in  bed." 

N.B. — B.  de  B.  brandy-and-sodas  himself, 
goes  to  bed,  reads  for  the  space  of  five 
minutes  ;  is  heard  to  ejaculate  feebly,  "  What 
a  muff  the  beggar  must  be!  wish  I  had 
some  of  his  tin ; "  yawns,  stares  at  the 
candle,  shakes  his  head  solemnly,  and  drops 
off  to  sleep — of  course  leaving  the  candle  to 
put  itself  out,  a  feat  it  accomplishes  in  about 
an  hour's  time,  in  its  last  flicker  very  nearly 
setting  light  to  the  manuscript,  the  bed- 
clothes, and  the  valuable  carcase  of  Mr. 
Bryant  de  Butcherbootes. 

As  that  worthy's  landlady  remarks  to  an 
intimate,  the  next  afternoon,  over  a  cosy  cup 


6  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

of  tea  and  lots  of  buttered  toast — "  Well,  of 
all  the  careless  creetures  with  fire  and  money 
as  ever  I  seen,  Mister  Butch erbootes  he  beats 
'em  all  'oiler  ;  but  he's  a  nice-spoken,  amiable 
young  gent,  and  I  raly  can't  bear  to  be  'arsh 
with  'im." 

Simkiri,  Lumper  fy  Co., 

St.  Mary  Axe,  E.C. 

Samuel  Simkin — "  dat's  me,"  as  the  face- 
tious Mr.  Moore,  of  the  Christy  Minstrels, 
would  say ;  Thomas  Whittington  Lumper 
(private  address,  Avenue  Road,  St.  John's 
Wood)  ;  Co.,  nobody — in  short,  a  myth  :  that 
is  the  extent  of  our  firm,  which,  thanks  to  the 
energy  and  perseverance  of  our  respective 
parents,  now  no  more,  boasts  of  as  good  and 
solid  a  name  as  any  in  the  city  of  London. 

Brought  up  to  business  as  it  were  from 
my  cradle,  and  being  entered  to  office-work 
directly  I  left  school,  at  sixteen,  and  seeing 
no  one  scarcely,  except  my  worthy  parents, 
from  one  year's  end  to  another,  it  is  not 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  7 

to  be  wondered  at  that  I  should  grow  up 
rather  what  is  called  a  muff.  My  partner 
just  the  same  :  he  was  brought  up  much  on 
the  same  recipe  as  I  was.  Talk  to  him  of 
sporting  in  any  of  its  branches,  and  he  is 
nearly  sick.  He  went  once  to  Ascot,  he  will 
tell  you,  and,  shocking  to  relate,  the  mob 
in  hot  pursuit  of  a  "  welsher"  got  hold  of  him 
in  mistake,  and,  before  they  found  out  their 
error,  beat  and  kicked  him  until  he  was 
nearly  dead.  That  was  not  all ;  they  carried 
off  as  souvenirs  all  his  money  and  jewellery, 
including  his  gold  watch  and  chain,  the 
valued  gift  of  his  maternal  grandmother. 
He  went  out  shooting  once,  and  got  shot 
himself;  he  did  not  try  that  game  again. 
He  once  went  out  hunting  ;  got  well  sworn 
at  by  the  master,  was  stoned  by  a  can- 
tankerous farmer  for  riding  over  his  wheat, 
and  lastly  was  kicked  off.  "  No  more  racin', 
'untin',  or  shootin'  (he  clips  his  A's  a  bit), 
says  Lumper,  with  much  emphasis,  when 


8  MY   DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS. 

he   has   finished   telling   his   misfortunes   to 
any  of  his  friends. 

To  return,  however,  to  my  own  experiences. 
As  I  said  before,  I  am  not  like  most  young 
men  of  my  time,  and  am  afraid  I  am  a  dread- 
ful muff.  I  am  in  my  element  when  seated 
on  a  three-legged  stool,  and  that  is  all  I 
can  say  of  myself. 

The  first  branch  of  sport  I  tried  my  hand 
at  was  shooting.  It  happened  thus  :  I  went 
down  one  Christmas  to  spend  the  festive 
season  with  my  friend  Charlie  Bangup,  of 
the  Stock  Exchange,  at  his  snug  little  place— 
"  crib,"  he  calls  it — in  Hertfordshire.  Charlie 
as  is  well  known,  wears  the  glosiest  hat, 
wears  it  more  on  one  side,  drives  better 
horses,  rides  harder,  and  bets  larger  than 
any  member  of  his  fraternity.  Well,  on 
Boxing  Day,  Charlie  announced  at  breakfast 
that  there  were  some  rabbits  to  be  killed  in 
a  bit  of  gorse  he  had,  not  far  from  the  house. 

"We've   had   'em  all   ferreted   out,"  said 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

he,  "and  the  holes  stopped,  and  I  know 
there  are  lots  of  'em.  Jack  and  Tom" 
(alluding  to  two  men  staying  in  the  house) 
"  have  their  guns  with  them,  and  you  shall 
have  one  of  mine." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  I  can't  shoot!"  I 
exclaim. 

"  Gammon !"  answers  Charlie.  "  Any- 
body can  shoot." 

So  at  last,  persuaded  sorely  against  my 
will,  I  consented  to  join  the  party ;  and  off 
we  started,  in  company  with  several  beaters 
and  sundry  nondescript  terriers.  Charlie's 
groom  was  told  off  to  stick  to  me  with  the 
cartridges,  and  to  load  for  me,  etc. 

Arrived  at  the  field  of  action,  I  was  duly 
posted  at  the  end  of  a  small  ride  cut  in  the 
gorse.  Charlie  was  right ;  there  were  lots 
of  rabbits  "  cutting "  about,  stopped  out  of 
their  comfortable  homes,  this  fine  frosty 
morning.  I  had  not  been  posted  two  minutes 
before  several  crossed  the  ride  like  a  flash 


10  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

of  lightning — a  great  deal  too  quick  for  me. 
Bang!  bang!  bang!  go  several  guns  round 
me  ;  and  what  with  the  shouts  of  the  beaters, 
and  the  "  Yap,  yap !  yow,  yow,  yow ! "  of  the 
excited  dogs,  to  say  nothing  of  the  enthusi- 
astic young  groom  at  my  elbow,  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  doing,  and  could  not  make 
up  my  mind  to  let  off  my  gun.  At  last  I 
got  used  to  the  noise,  and  taking  a  pull 
at  my  flask — filled  with  orange  brandy — I 
waited  for  the  next  rabbit  to  make  his 
appearance,  determined  when  he  did  to 
shoot. 

A  sagacious-looking  terrier,  evidently  an 
old  hand  at  the  game,  now  made  his  ap- 
pearance. 

"  That's  our  old  Pepper,  sir,"  remarks  my 
friend  the  groom  ;  "  he's  as  artful  as  any  old 
woman,  he  is.  He  cost  master  the  best  part 
of  a  'undred  and  fifty  pund  last  lambing 
time  killing  ship  "  (sheep). 

The  disreputable  Pepper  looked  up  at  me 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  11 

with  his  head  on  one  side,  as  much  as  to  say 
"  Can  you  shoot,  I  wonder?"  and  then,  with 
a  wag  of  his  tail,  proceeded  to  trot  along, 
sniffing  as  he  went,  by  the  side  of  the  gorse. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  short,  and  with  a  look 
round  at  me,  darted  into  the  gorse.  "  Yap, 
yap,  yap!"  and  out  popped  a  rabbit,  about 
twenty  yards  ahead  of  me.  Not  at  all  an 
excited  coney,  this  ;  for  he  very  deliberately 
sat  up  on  his  hind-legs,  and  looked  about 
him  when  he  emerged  from  the  gorse.  Ap- 
parently satisfied  with  my  appearance,  he 
very  slowly  shuffled  on. 

"  Now's  your  time,  sir,"  said  my  friend  of 
the   stable,  behind   me.     "  Let   'im  have  it, 


sir." 


I  raised  my  gun  carefully  to  my  shoulder, 
saw  the  impudent  rabbit,  as  I  thought,  well 
at  the  sight  at  the  end  of  the  barrel,  shut 
both  eyes,  and — pulled  the  fatal  trigger. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  Oh!  dear!  I'm  killed! 
Boohoo!  boohoo!  boohoo!" 


12  MY    DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

Heavens !  what  a  row.  Up  come  the  other 
guns,  pale  in  the  face. 

"What  the  deuce  is  the  matter!"  says 
Charlie.  "  Who's  shot?" 

Who  indeed.  What  became  of  the  rabbit 
I  don't  know.  The  charge  of  shot  I  meant 
for  it  had  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  that  noble  animal,  and  had  instead  di- 
vided its  attentions  between  a  sturdy  furze 
bush  and  little  Billy  Wilkin's  legs.  Luckily 
that  youth  was  more  frightened  than  hurt, 
and  a  twenty  pound  note  into  the  willing 
hands  of  his  father,  who  was  also  assisting  to 
rouse  our  game,  proved  an  effectual  cure. 
Disgusted  with  myself,  I  shot  no  more  that 
day,  nor  indeed  have  I  ever  handled  a  gun 
since. 

I  am  afraid  Master  Wilkins  did  not  profit 
by  my  douceur  as  much  as  I  could  have 
wished,  for  it  is  on  record  that  his  beloved 
parent,  a  simple  carpenter  by  trade,  and  a 
regular  village  sot  as  well,  took  a  holiday  to 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  13 

himself,  on  the  strength  of  my  too  liberal  gift, 
for  three  weeks,  during  the  whole  of  which 
time  he  was  gloriously  drunk.  He  honoured 
me,  when  I  went  back  to  town,  by  appearing 
at  the  station  very  obfuscated,  and  just  as  I 
had  got  into  the  train  he  staggered  up,  and 
insisted  on  shaking  hands  with  me  and 
giving  me  his  drunken  blessing,  much  to 
the  delight  of  my  fellow- passengers  and  my 
proportionate  disgust. 

I  could  tell  you,  but  I  won't,  how  I  was 
maltreated  and  lamed,  for  goodness  knows 
how  long,  by  a  nasty  cricket  ball,  the  only  time 
in  my  life  I  ever  assisted  at  what  is  called 
the  noble  game  of  cricket?  Noble?  Pah!  It 
makes  me  ill  the  thought  of  it.  I  occasionally 
pay  my  money  at  Lord's  cricket  ground,  and 
with  a  placid  smile  on  my  countenance  and 
a  large  cigar  in  my  mouth,  look  on  whilst 
what  I  can  call  nothing  but  a  lot  of  idiots 
are  running  about,  until  they  perspire  like  the 
horses  after  the  Derby.  Men,  too,  old  enough 


14  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

to  know  better,  barking  their  shins,  blacken- 
ing their  eyes,  and  breaking  their  noses  ;  and 
they  call  it  play.  Well,  I  hope  they  like  it ; 
I  don't. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  subject  con- 
cerning my  adventures  in  the  hunting  field. 
Hooick  then  to  Simkin !  hooick !  It  was  just 
this  time  two  years  ago,  about  eleven  o'clock 
on  a  dull  October,  or  as  I  suppose  Mr.  Millais 
would  call  it,  a  "chill  October  morning," 
that  an  individual,  presenting  to  the  shrewd 
observer  the  appearance  of  a  well-to-do,  sub- 
stantial man  of  business — the  respectable- 
looking  hat,  the  quiet  tone  of  the  continua- 
tions, and  dark- coloured  gloves,  all  denoting 
that  the  wearer  was  "something  in  the  city" 
— might  have  been  seen  walking  slowly  along 
Piccadilly.  That  individual  was  myself.  Why 
was  I  not  at  my  post  in  the  city,  and  what 
was  I  doing,  at  that  time  of  day,  in  that  part 
of  the  town  ?  I  will  explain.  For  some  time 
previously  I  had  been  feeling  far  from  well. 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  15 

Felt  bilious  when  I  woke  up  in  the  morning, 
lost  my  appetite,  had  a  buzzing  in  my  ears, 
couldn't  sleep  ;  in  fact,  felt  thoroughly  dys- 
peptic and  out  of  sorts. 

"  Go  and  see  your  doctor,"  said  my  partner, 
Lumper. 

"I  will,"  said  I,  "to-morrow  morning." 

Accordingly,  as  I  have  just  said,  to-morrow 
morning  found  me  wending  my  way  along 
Piccadilly  to  Sackville  Street,  armed  with 
the  usual  guinea  in  my  waistcoat  pocket, 
bound  for  the  residence  of  my  medical  man, 
the  great  Dr.  Cupper.  In  due  time  I  arrived 
there,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  was  shown 
into  the  doctor's  library,  .where  sundry  other 
patients  were  waiting  their  turn,  and  whiled 
away  the  time  by  alternately  reading  the 
advertisement  sheet  of  the  Times  and  won- 
dering what  was  the  matter  with  all  the 
other  people  in  the  room.  At  last  came 
my  turn. 

"Will  you  step  this  way,  sir?"  from  the 


16  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

solemn  servant,  and  I  found  myself  in  the 
great  man's  sanctum. 

That  worthy  is  standing  warming  himself 
in  front  of  his  fire  as  I  enter.  A  tall,  thin, 
sharp-looking  man,  with  a  particularly  bright 
eye,  which  takes  me  in  from  the  crown  of  my 
head  to  the  soles  of  my  boots  in  a  second. 

"Ha,  ha!"  is  his  greeting,  "I  see  what's 
the  matter  with  you ;  no  need  to  trouble  your- 
self to  tell  me.  How  d d  bilious  you  do 

look !  Sit  down.  By  Jove !  you're  as  yellow 
as  a  guinea,  stuffing  yourself  with  turtle, 
blowing  yourself  out  with  champagne,  and 
taking  no  exercise.  Of  course,  I  know  all 
about  it :  all  you  city  men  do.  Haven't  you 
now?  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,  so  attend  to 
me.  I  suppose  you  want  a  pretty  clear  head 
for  that  business  of  yours,  don't  you  ?  Good. 
Now,  I  ask  you,  how  can  you  expect  to  have 
a  head  on  your  shoulders  at  all,  if  you  will  go 
on  over  eating,  drinking,  and  smoking  your- 
self every  day  of  your  life?  Gad!  you  don't 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  17 

deserve  to  feel  well.  You'll  have  the  good- 
ness to  limit  yourself  to  a  pint  of  wine  at 
your  dinner,  not  more  than  two  cigars  a  day, 
and  be  moderate  in  your  eating  ;  and  I  must 
insist  on  exercise  and  plenty  of  it,  so  the  best 
thing  you  can  possibly  do  is  to  buy  a  horse, 
and  have  a  good  gallop  once  a  week  with  the 
hounds.  Have  this  prescription  made  up. 
What's  this  ?  My  guinea — thank  you,  I  know 
I've  earned  it  well.  Come  and  see  me  again 
if  you  don't  get  better  soon,  and  don't  forget 
what  I've  told  you  about  hunting.  Finest 
thing  in  the  world  for  a  man  like  you.  Now, 
get  out ;  I'm  infernally  busy.  Good-bye." 
And  in  another  second  I  was  again  in  the 
street,  thinking  what  a  rum  one  the  doctor 
was,  and  not  quite  sure  whether  or  no  to  be 
angry  with  him  for  his  brusquerie. 

During  the  interview  I  had  actually  not 
spoken  two  words.  "  Recommended  me  to 
hunt,  did  he  ?  Hunt !  I  wonder  what  it's  like  ? 
Fine  exercise,  no  doubt ; "  and  ruminating 


18  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

thus,  I  suddenly  found  myself  brought  to  an 
anchor  by  a  small  crowd,  consisting  of  a 
parson,  two  butcher  boys,  a  cabman,  and  a 
sweep,  who  were  blocking  up  the  pavement 
and  staring  eagerly  into  the  well-known 
window  of  Messrs.  Fores'  print-shop. 

"  My  eye  !"  says  cabby,  "  doesn't  he  mean 
'avin'  of  it  neither?"  pointing  as  he  spoke 
to  that  familiar  print  of  Herring's,  entitled 
"  Steeplechase  Cracks,"  in  which  the  late 
Mr.  Jim  Mason  is  depicted,  with  smiling  face, 
riding  "Lottery"  at  a  large  stone  wall  which 
Lord  Strathmore  and  others  are  already 
jumping  in  the  easiest  style  imaginable. 

I  then  cast  my  eye  over  some  hunting  prints 
after  the  same  artist.  "By  Jove !  it  must  be  a 
fine  thing  hunting.  What  an  appetite  it  must 
give  one  ;  and,  after  all,  with  a  good  horse 
under  one,  not  so  difficult  either.  Why,  all 
those  fellows  in  scarlet,  jumping  a  large  fence 
look  as  if  they  were  sitting  in  armchairs.  I'll 
take  the  doctor's  advice,  hang  me  if  I  don't ! " 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  19 

I  felt  quite  a  sporting  character,  and  put 
on  quite  a  knowing  look  on  the  strength  of 
my  new  resolution   to  become  a  disciple  of 
Diana.     By  way  of  a  beginning  I  went  into 
the  first  bookseller's  I  came  to,  and  bought 
Delme  Radcliffe's  "Noble  Science,"  and,  on 
the  shopman's  strong  recommendation,  "  Mr 
Sponge's    Sporting   Tours"   and    "  Handley 
Cross"    —works,  he  said,  that  in  his  'umble 
opinion  "  no  'unting  gentleman  ought  to  be 
without."     I  then  wended  my  way  carefully 
to  my  comfortable  rooms  in  Suffolk  Street, 
expending  en  route  all  the  rest  of  the  money  I 
had  with  me  on  a  gold  horse-shoe  pin,  a  pair  of 
spurs,  and  a  hunting  whip.     I  strutted  along, 
thinking  myself  a  second  Nimrod.    I  actually 
had   visions   of   myself   taking   up   I    don't 
know  how  many  feet  of  room  on  the  walls 
of  Burlington   House  at  next  year's   Royal 
Academy,  depicted  in  a  bran-new  red  coat, 
irreproachable   leathers,    and   radiant    boots, 
with  a  nice  fresh  pink  face  (they  always  give 


20  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

'em  a  nice  pink  face),  an  amiable  smile  light- 
ing up  my  thunder  and  lightning  features, 
duly  described  in  the  catalogue,  "  Samuel 
Simkin,  Esq.,  on  his  favourite  hunter, 
'Tamaroo.'" 

On  my  appearance  in  the  smoking-room  of 
my  club   that  evening,  I  shall  never  forget 
Jack  Wildman's  face   (Jack   is  one  of  the 
rapid  ones  of  the  Stock  Exchange)  on  my 
asking    him   what    were    the   odds    against 
1  i  Rataplan ' '  for  the  Derby.   He  had  his  betting 
book  out  like  a  shot  as  soon  as  he  had  got 
over  his  astonishment,  and  laid  me  the  odds 
to  a  fiver ;  which  fiver  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
paying  him  some  months  after — "Rataplan," 
I  rather  think,  dying  about  a  month  before 
the  race,  so  I  did  not  even  have  a  run  for  my 
money.     I  astonished  him  still  more  by  ask- 
ing him  if  he  knew  of  a  horse — a  hunter- 
likely  to  suit  me.    Jack  told  me  confidentially, 
afterwards,    that    he   would    willingly    have 
betted  100  to  1  against  the  double  event— 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  21 

my  ever  backing  a  horse  for  the  Derby,  and 
getting  on  the  back  of  a  hunter.  I  had 
evidently  risen  a  hundred  per  cent,  in  his 
estimation,  for,  ringing  for  a  fresh  brandy-and- 
soda,  he  proceeded  to  confide  in  me  concerning 
a  clinker  he  knew  of,  being  kept  dark  with  a 
view  to  winning  the  Liverpool  steeplechase. 
"Between  you  and  me  and  the  post,"  he 
whispered  confidentially,  "he's  been  tried 
with  "Exciseman,"  last  year's  winner,  you 
know,  and  beat  him  easy  ;  he's  sure  to  get  in 
at  a  little  over  ten  stone,  and  if  he  keeps  well 
it's  a  moral." 

I  promised  to  keep  the  gallant  animal  (he 
rejoiced  in  the  name  of  "Oliver  Twist "  )  in  my 
mind's  eye,  and  back  him  the  first  opportunity. 

He  next  was  good  enough  to  give  me  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  a  friend  of  his,  one 
Captain  Coper.  "  He's  not  a  captain  a  bit," 
said  Jack,  "  but  he  always  knows  of  a  horse  ; 
in  fact,  that's  his  profession,  amateur  horse- 
dealing.  He'll  borrow  a  tenner  of  you,  and 


22  MY   DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

probably  get  a  handsome  commission  out  of 
the  dealer  ;  but  he  is  the  most  likely  man  I 
know  to  find  you  what  you  want.  When 
you  have  finished  your  business  with  him, 
take  my  advice  and  give  him  the  cold 
shoulder,  or  you'll  find  him  a  nuisance." 

Armed  with  the  letter  to  the  bold  Captain 
Coper,  I  retired  to  my  chamber  for  the  night. 
I  could  not  sleep  a  bit  when  I  went  to  bed — 
kept  tossing  and  turning  about  for  hours.  At 
last  I  dozed  off,  and  proceeded  to  dream  that  I 
was  riding  a  match  over  the  Liverpool  course 
with  my  partner,  Lumper,  for  £1000.  I  was 
riding  "Oliver  Twist,"  and  he  "Exciseman." 
I  was  winning  easily,  when,  about  a  hundred 
yards  from  home,  up  there  started,  under  my 
horse's  very  nose,  the  ghost  of  my  late  father, 
his  grey  hairs  sticking  straight  up  with 
horror.  Yes,  there  he  was,  his  pen  behind 
his  ear  as  usual,  and  his  hands,  in  one  of 
which  was  a  huge  ruler,  held  up  with 
astonishment.  "  Oliver  Twist "  stopped  as  if 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  23 

shot,  Lumper  galloping  by  me  with  a 
demoniacal  grin  on  his  face.  I  went  right 
over  "Oliver's"  head.  Crack  comes  my  un- 
fortunate head  on  the  ground — ough  !  how 
hard  it  is — and  I  wake  to  find  myself 
floundering  on  the  floor  of  my  bedroom 
instead  of  on  the  plains  of  Aintree.  I  betake 
myself,  rubbing  my  head,  to  bed  once  more, 
this  time  to  sleep,  thank  goodness. 

After  a  late  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
I  sallied  forth  in  quest  of  the  renowned 
Captain  Coper.  Being  a  gentleman  of  pro- 
miscuous habits  and  no  recognized  home,  he 
is  occasionally  difficult  to  find.  However, 
on  this  particular  morning,  I  ran  him  to 
ground  in  the  very  first  cover  Jack  Wildman 
told  me  to  draw,  viz.  Axe's  Hotel,  Piccadilly. 

On  inquiring  at  the  bar,  I  was  told  he  was 
at  that  moment  in  the  coffee  room  ;  and  a 
waiter,  preceding  me,  goes  up  to  a  gentle- 
man of  horsey  appearance,  who  is  sitting, 
drinking  brandy-and-soda,  in  company  with 


24  MY    DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

three  more  gentlemen  equally  sporting  in 
their  personal  appearance,  and  making  use 
of  the  simple  words,  "  A  gent  for  you, 
Captain,"  gives  one  of  the  tables  a  dab  with 
his  dirty  napkin,  takes  up  an  empty  tumbler, 
and  takes  his  departure. 

"Captain  Coper,  I  believe?"  I  begin, 
taking  off  my  hat. 

"  Yes ;  my  name's  Coper,"  replies  that 
worthy,  rather  suspiciously,  I  think,  giving 
me  a  hearty  stare.  I  overhear  one  of  his 
friends  whisper  to  another,  "  A  dun  for  old 
Copy,  by  Jove !  " 

"  I've  brought  a  note  from  my  friend 
Wildman,"  I  go  on,  giving  Coper  the  note. 

That  worthy  reads  it  over,  and  his  whole 
demeanour  changes  instantaneously.  "  How 
are  you?"  exclaims  he,  jumping  up  and 
pump-handling  me  most  severely.  "Delighted 
to  know  you.  Let  me  introduce  you  ;  Captain 
Blackball  —  Mr.  Simkin,  Captain  Levant, 
Captain  Armstrong. 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  25 

The  captains,  one  and  all,  bow  most 
politely,  and  express  their  delight  at  making 
my  acquaintance  ;  that  accomplished  Coper 
requests  to  know  what  I  will  drink.  I  think 
it  best  to  take  something,  so  I  indulge  in 
a  brandy-and-soda,  and  the  captains  all  have 
their  tumblers  refilled  with  the  same  ex- 
hilarating fluid.  The  conversation  I  inter- 
rupted is  then  renewed  with  great  vigour  ; 
the  principal  themes  being  a  most  barefaced 
robbery  at  a  suburban  steeplechase  meeting 
two  or  three  days  before,  in  which  pie  they 
all  seemed  to  have  had  a  finger  and  profited 
accordingly,  and  a  funny  little  story  con- 
cerning a  bill,  in  which  two  noblemen,  a 
select  covey  of  Jews,  a  betting-man  or  two, 
and  a  lady  of  doubtful  reputation  were  all 
mixed  up,  needless  to  say  more  or  less  dis- 
creditably— the  two  peers  of  the  realm,  to 
use  the  forcible  language  of  the  experienced 
Captain  Blackball,  getting  "  five  to  two  "  the 
worst  of  it. 


26  MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

"  So  you  want  a  horse,  do  you?"  says 
Coper,  after  a  bit,  taking  me  confidentially  to 
the  window.  "  Let  me  see,  now,"  he  goes 
on,  tilting  his  hat  on  to  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  and  chewing  his  toothpick  sedulously  ; 
"  let  me  see.  There's  that  little  bay  mare  Jim 
Whippy  druv  in  his  coach  this  summer.  No, 
she  won't  do  ;  not  up  to  your  weight.  That 
chestnut  at  the  stables  in  Park  Lane — apt  to 
rear  a  bit,  but  a  nice  little  horse." 

"  It  must  be  very  quiet,"  I  inform  him,  "  as 
I  am  no  horseman." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  then,"  says  he  ;  "  we'll 
go  down  to  Diddler's,  at  Knightsbridge,  and 
see  what  he's  got.  Go  now  if  you  like." 

I  readily  acquiesce ;  and  bidding  farewell  to 
the  brandy-and-soda  drinking,  cigar-smoking, 
flash -looking  captains,  we  sally  forth. 

Coper  is  all  Jack  described  him ;  he  is  a 
fine-figured,  rather  well-bred  looking  man, 
and  would  be  good-looking  did  he  not  look  so 
abominably  dissipated,  and  slightly  dirty  into 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS.  27 

the  bargain.  His  dress  as  I  have  before  re- 
marked, is  of  the  horsiest  description ;  and, 
what  with  his  looks,  his  costume,  and  his 
swagger,  he  is  not  altogether  the  sort  of 
gentleman  a  young  man  of  steady  habits  and 
good  character  would  care  to  be  seen  about 
with  much.  "  Noscitur  ex  sociis"  as  my 
late  father  used  to  be  very  fond  of  saying  to 
me,  when  warning  me  against  any  one  he 
disapproved  of.  I  believe  it  was  about  the 
only  piece  of  Latin  he  knew  so  he  was  con- 
stantly bringing  it  out  with  great  gratification 
to  himself. 

After  a  brisk  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk,  we 
arrived  at  Mr.  Diddler's  stables. 

"Mr.  Diddler  in?"  asks  Coper  of  a  helper 
who  is  busy  cleaning  a  bit  outside  the  saddle - 
room  door. 

"In  the  hoffis,  Capen,"  replied  the  man. 

To  the  "hoffis"  we  accordingly  wend  our 
way,  and,  tapping  at  the  door,  it  is  opened 
by  the  great  Mr.  Diddler  in  person.  As  I 


28  MY   DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS. 

looked  him  over,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
such  a  neat  little  man  in  my  life.  His  fresh  - 
coloured  and  rather  good-looking  face  is  set 
off  by  a  very  well -shaped  and  carefully 
brushed  hat,  which  he  has  a  habit  of  tilting 
on  to  his  nose  as  he  talks  ;  his  shirt- collar  is 
fastened  with  a  silver  snaffle  in  place  of  the 
ordinary  stud,  and  he  sports  a  natty  black 
and  white  bird's-eye  tie  fashioned  into  a  bow. 
He  wears  a  short  single-breasted  jacket  *of 
some  dark  mixture ;  then  come  a  pair  of  re- 
markably well  made,  well-put-on  brown  cords, 
broad  in  the  ridge  and  furrow,  meeting  in 
their  turn  a  pair  of  patent  leather  blucher 
boots,  simply  perfect  in  their  fit  and  look  of 
comfort  to  the  foot.  He  is  on  extremely  good, 
not  to  say  familiar,  terms  with  the  "  Capt'in," 
as  he  calls  him  ;  nay,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that,  if  I  were  not  there,  he  would  drop  the 
"captain"  altogether  and  call  him  plain  Coper. 
On  learning  my  wants  he  remarks  that  he 
believes  he  has  the  very  thing.  "  Come  this 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  29 

way,  sir.  Now,  here's  a  little  bay  'oss  in  here 
I'll  show  you,  but  if  you  are  at  all  timid, 
why,  I  wouldn't  altogether  recommend  'im 
to  you.  A  gent  got  on  his  back  yesterday, 
and  rode  'im  in  the  Park  for  a  little  bit ;  came 
back  and  said  he  was  a  mad  'oss.  'Mad!1 
I  says  to  myself.  '  You1  re  mad.  With  the 
'ands  of  hiron  you've  got,  no  wonder  the  'oss 
is  fidgety.'" 

We  inspect  the  "mad  'oss''— a  not  bad- 
looking  well-bred  bay,  but  anything  but  a 
kind-looking  animal,  as  he  lays  back  his  ears 
and  shows  the  whites  of  a  very  wicked  pair 
of  eyes. 

"  Now,''  says  Mr.  Diddler,  turning  the  key 
of  the  next  box,  "  I  think  you'll  say  this  'oss 
I'm  now  going  to  show  you  is  a  gentleman." 

He  then  opens  the  door  with  a  flourish. 
We  enter,  and  see  before  us  a  little  grey 
horse,  who  certainly,  to  my  ignorant  eye, 
quite  comes  up  in  his  personal  appearance 
to  his  owner's  flattering  description. 


30  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

"Pass  your  'and  over  'im,  sir,"  says 
Diddler,  "pass  your  'and  over  'im  ;  he  won't 
bite  or  kick  either.  It's  only  his  fun,  the 
playful  rogue,"  he  continues,  as  the  horse,  on 
my  approach,  lays  his  ears  back,  and  arches 
his  back.  "  He's  looking  about  for  a  piece  of 
sugar — ain't  you,  my  boy?  I  bought  this 
little  'oss  off  Lord  William  Lovelace,  of  the 
3rd  Lancers  ;  he  sold  out  and  went  abroad, 
consequently  had  no  further  use  for  'im. 
You'll  know  Lord  William,  no  doubt.  His 
sister,  Lady  Heva,  she  made  a  regular  pet 
of  the  'oss  :  used  to  give  'im  grapes  and 
sugar  'arf  the  day.  She  wanted  once  actually 
to  'ave  'im  up  into  the  dining-room  to 
luncheon,  to  see  if  he'd  eat  souffly  pudding— 
ha,  ha,  ha !  "  laughed  Mr.  Diddler  ;  "  but  her 
pa  and  ma,  the  Hearl  and  Countess  of  Long- 
acre,  fond  as  they  are  of  her  ladyship, 
couldn't  stand  that,  you  know.  Lady  Heva 
cried  her  pretty  eyes  out  nearly  when  her 
brother  sold  'im.  '  Grey  Peter '  'is  name  is. 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  31 

She  drove  up  here  in  her  victoria  one  day  ; 
I  'appened  to  be  standing  at  the  entrance  to 
the  yard  as  she  arrived.  'Mr.  Diddler/  says 
she,  'my  brother  tells  me  you've  bought  'is 
little  grey  'oss,  "Grey  Peter"?'  'I  have,  my 
lady,'  I  says.  'Oh,  Mr.  Diddler,'  she  says, 
'be  kind  to  'im  for  my  sake,'  she  says,  and 
the  tears  came  welling  up  in  her  pretty  v'ilet 
heyes  as  she  spoke  ;  it  made  me  feel  quite 
choky,"  said  the  soft-hearted  Diddler,  cough- 
ing, and  giving  his  neck  a  grip  as  he  spoke, 
as  if  the  remembrance  of  this  affecting  little 
episode  quite  overpowered  him.  "  '  Be  kind 
to  'im  for  my  sake,'  says  her  ladyship  ;  'and 
oh,  Mr.  Diddler,  if  you  hever  should  sell  'im, 
do  try  and  get  'im  a  good  'ome  ;  and  let  me 
hear  from  time  to  time  'ow  he  is,  the  dear, 
darling  little  'oss.'  I  promised  her  faithfully, 
and  she  shook  'ands  with  me  and  drove  away 
quite  'appy.  If  Lord  William  had  kept  'im 
he'd  have  won  his  regimental  steeplechase 
with  'im  to  a  moral  certainty,  that  he  would. 


32  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

'Owever,  poor  young  gent,  he  was  pretty 
nearly  as  fast  as  his  little  grey  'oss,  and  was 
forced  to  sell  out — more's  the  pity. 

"Well,  sir,  I've  told  you  all  about  'im 
You  want  an  'ack — there  you  are,  perfect 
both  in  looks  and  manners.  You  want  a 
hunter — there  you  are  again,  he'll  never  put 
you  down  ;  and  there's  nothing  you  need  fear 
riding  at  with  any  hounds  in  any  county. 
He's  good  at  every  description  of  fence.  I 
should  like  to  sell  'ini  to  you,  sir,  first, 
because  I  always  like  to  accommodate  a  friend 
of  the  Capt'in  here  ;  and  secondly,  I  should 
feel  sure  that  in  handing  'im  over  to  you  he 
would  get,  what  I  am  so  hanxious  to  procure 
for  'im,  a  good  comfortable  'ome.  Two  'underd 
and  fefty  is  his  price,  and  dirt  cheap,  too.  I 
should  ask  three  'underd  for  'im  to  any  one 
else,  but  being  a  friend  of  the  Capt'in's  and 
all,  I  don't  mind  parting  with  'im  for  that." 

"  Dear  me !  that's  a  deal  of  money,"  say  I. 

"  Well,     sir,5'    rejoins     Diddler,    "  you've 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  33 

described  to  me  the  sort  of  'oss  you  require, 
and  'appening  to  'ave  that  very  'oss,  why,  I 
show  'im  alone,  without  showing  you  a  lot  of 
'osses  that  I  know  wouldn't  suit  you  at  any 
price.  Now,  if  you  was  a  bold  devil-may- 
care  rider,  and  you  come  to  me,  and  you  were 
to  say,  '  Diddler,  I  want  an  'oss  to  'unt  this 
season,  I  don't  care  particler  about  a  screw 
being  loose  ;  he  can  kick,  or  rear,  or  bolt,  or 
anything  :  it's  no  odds,  as  long  as  he  can  go ' 
—why,  I  could  probably  supply  you  with  one 
for  perhaps  sixty  or  seventy  pund,  even  as 
low  as  fefty,  very  likely  ;  but  such  a  one  as 
this  little  grey  I'll  defy  you  to  get  anywhere 
for  less  money  than  I  am  asking.  'Owever, 
don't  let  me  press  you,  sir,  don't  let  me  press 
you  ;  I  am  only  too  'appy  to  'ave  shown  you 
Lady  Heva's  old  pet.  Shut  the  door,  Thomas ; 
and  come  into  my  office,  sir,  and  take  a  glass 
of  sherry  before  you  go." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Diddler  leads  us  back  to  his 
sanctum,  where  he  produces  some  excellent 


34  MY    DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

brown  sherry  and  a  box  of  cigars,  to  both 
of  which  Coper  does  full  justice. 

"  Excuse  me  for  'arf  a  minute,  sir/'  says 
Mr.  Diddler,  "  whilst  I  go  and  speak  a  word 
to  my  man  ; ''  and  he  gracefully  retires. 

"  Well,''  says  Captain  Coper,  directly  he 
is  gone,  "what' 11  you  do  about  the  grey? 
If  you  will  take  my  advice,  you'll  buy  him. 
I  really  think  he's  a  cheap  horse.  What  say 
you?  If  you  buy  him  you  must  give  me 
a  mount  on  him  some  fine  day.  I'll  shove 
him  along.  Capital  cigars  these  ;  I'll  pocket 
a  couple."  The  gallant  officer  is  as  good  as 
his  word  ;  rather  better,  for  he  pockets  at 
least  half  a  dozen.  He  also  helps  himself 
freely  to  sherry. 

In  the  course  of  ten  minutes  Mr.  Diddler 
returned,  and,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  I 
offered  him  two  hundred  for  his  horse.  But 
that  worthy  was  firm  ;  not  a  halfpenny  less 
than  his  price  would  he  take  ;  so  at  last  I 
had  to  harden  my  heart,  and  walked  out  of 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  35 

Mr.  Diddler's  premises  a  poorer  man  by  two 
hundred  and  fifty  golden  guineas,  and  the 
proud  possessor  of  that  paragon  of  per- 
fection, the  little  grey  nag,  "  Grey  Peter." 

The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  get 
hold  of  a  groom,  and  again  was  the  useful 
Coper  consulted.  Did  he  know  of  a  likely 
servant?  Of  course  he  did;  Tom  Dapper, 
if  he  had  not  got  a  place,  was  the  very  man. 
At  present,  he  (Coper)  believed  he  was  at 
Latherington's  stables,  in  the  Edgware  Road, 
doing  odd  jobs,  such  as  driving  old  dowagers 
about  the  town,  and,  in  fact,  making  himself 
generally  useful.  As  luck  would  have  it,  he 
was  going  to  Latherington's  that  very  after- 
noon, and  if  Mr.  Dapper  was  to  be  had, 
he  would  tell  him  to  call  on  me.  We  stopped 
at  the  corner  of  Park  Lane  ;  and  borrowing 
a  "fiver,"  as  he  called  it,  from  me,  Coper 
swaggered  off,  and  I  strolled  on,  meditating 
on  my  morning's  work,  to  the  club. 

The   next  morning,  as   the   clock   struck 


36  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

ten,  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  front  door,  and 
Mr.  Dapper  was  ushered  into  my  presence, 
and,  after  sundry  questions  satisfactorily 
answered,  was  duly  engaged.  Two  days 
afterwards  saw  the  redoubtable  "  Grey  Peter" 
and  himself  comfortably  settled  down  at 
the  Plantagenet  Arms  Hotel,  at  Whichford, 
in  Crampshire  which  place  I  intended  to 
make  my  starting-point  when  I  hunted  with 
that  renowned  pack  of  foxhounds,  "  The  Old 
Harkaway,"  or,  as  they  are  usually  termed, 
the  O.H.H. 

My  next  move  was  to  equip  myself  in  a 
proper  manner  for  the  chase.  Great  was  the 
astonishment  of  my  tailor  in  the  city  on  my 
ordering  my  red  coat. 

"I  presoom,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Snips,  "you 
require  it  for  a  fancy  ball." 

"Fancy  ball!"  I  exclaimed,  in  huge  in- 
dignation. "  Certainly  not  !  I  want  it  to 
hunt  in,  of  course." 

"O-o-oh!"  said   Mr.    Snips.     "  I  'umbly 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  37 

beg  pardon  ;  I  had  no  idea,  sir,  you  was 
in  the  habit  of  following  the  'ounds." 

Boots,  breeches,  hat,  hat-string,  sherry- 
flask,  whip,  spurs,  everything  ordered  neces- 
sary for  a  votary  of  Diana,  I  next  ^proceeded 
to  Mr.  Gambado's  riding-school,  in  St.  John's 
Wood,  to  work  out  three  guineas'  worth  of 
hunting  lessons.  I  went  at  it  steadily  every 
day  for  a  week,  and  after  several  falls,  and 
the  loss  of  three  hats  irretrievably  smashed, 
I  thought  myself  tolerably  competent  to  take 
the  field. 

The  first  of  November  was  close  at  hand, 
but,  alas !  I  could  not  go  out,  as  my  top-boots 
had  not  been  sent  home.  So  I  wrote  and 
told  Mr.  Tom  Dapper  to  take  the  grey  out  on 
the  opening  day  and  show  him  the  hounds, 
and  to  be  sure  and  ride  him  quietly.  The 
O.H.H.  were  to  meet  at  the  kennels  on  the 
1st,  about  five  miles  from  Whichford.  When 
the  morning  came,  I  thought  to  myself,  as  I 
lay  tossing  about  in  bed,  "I  wish  to  goodness 


38  MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

I  could  sport  my  new  clothes  to-day.  What 
a  nuisance  those  boots  not  having  come  ! 
Stop.  Why  shouldn't  I  run  down  to  Which  - 
ford,  and  drive  over  to  the  meet,  and  have  a 
look  at  the  hounds?" 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  I  jumped  out 
of  bed,  dressed  as  quickly  as  possible,  and, 
swallowing  a  cup  of  tea,  bustled  off  to 
Euston  Square,  where  I  just  caught  the  train. 
Most  of  the  hunting  men  had  come  down  by 
the  previous  train,  so  on  reaching  Whichford, 
I  found  it  would  be  all  I  should  do  to  get  to 
the  meet  in  time.  My  groom  had  started  off 
on  "  Grey  Peter"  nearly  an  hour  before.  I 
ordered  a  dogcart  and  a  man  to  drive,  and 
after  a  hasty  breakfast,  off  we  started. 

After  about  three  miles'  driving,  during 
which  my  driver  beguiled  the  time  by  telling 
me  the  owners  of  the  numerous  country 
houses  we  passed,  we  got  more  into  the  open 
country  ;  and,  turning  sharp  round  a  corner, 
we  suddenly  dropped  upon  a  knot  of  about  a 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  39 

dozen  farmers  and  grooms,  who  were  staring 
intently  at  something  going  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge.  We  pulled  up  to  have  a  look, 
too ;  and,  standing  up  in  the  dogcart,  I  beheld 
in  the  distance,  about  three  fields  off,  two 
horses,  a  grey  and  a  brown,  coming  along  as 
hard  as  ever  they  can  lay  legs  to  the  ground. 

"Oh,  he's  a  clever  little  'oss,  that  grey. 
Look  at  that !  My  wig,  how  he  jumps ! "  says 
an  enthusiastic  farmer. 

"  Here  they  come !  Why,  I'm  blowed  if  he 
ain't  agoin'  at  the  gate!"  says  another. 

Sure  enough,  the  man  on  the  grey,  instead 
of  going  at  the  fence,  goes  out  of  his  line 
and  rides  straight  at  the  gate,  evidently  a 
brand-new  one,  painted  white.  Over  they  go. 
Well  jumped  indeed !  The  grey  flew  at  it  as 
if  there  was  I  don't  know  what  the  other  side. 
His  rider  now  pulls  him  into  a  canter,  then 
into  a  trot,  and  joins  us  in  the  road  ;  the 
brown  horse,  evidently  outpaced,  and  badly 
ridden  into  the  bargain,  labouring  behind. 


40  MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

"  Well  done,  Tommy !"  holloas  a  groom  at 
my  elbow  to  the  breathless  rider  of  the  clever 
grey  horse. 

But — good  gracious!  what's  this?  Can  it 
be  ?  Why,  hang  me  if  it  is  not  my  own  horse, 
"Grey  Peter,"  and  that  rascal  of  a  groom, 
Tom  Dapper!  Curse  his  impudence! 

That  worthy,  attired,  if  you  please,  in  a 
shooting  jacket  in  a  particularly  loud  plaid 
pattern,  and  a  pair  of  very  neat  breeches  and 
boots,  does  not  see  me,  and  having  received  the 
congratulations  of  his  friends,  proceeds  calmly 
to  light  a  cigar  ;  and  now,  dash  my  buttons 
if  he  is  not  going  to  refresh  himself  with  a 
pull  from  my  long  sherry -flask,  which  he.  has 
fastened  to  the  saddle.  This  is  too  much. 

"Thomas!"  I  shout,  frowning  as  fiercely 
as  I  possibly  can  at  him. 

He  looks  up  and  catches  my  angry  eye, 
and  for  a  moment  is  evidently  much  confused. 
His  friends,  putting  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks,  slink  off. 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  41 

Mr.  Dapper  very  soon  recovers  his  native 
impudence,  and  coming  straight  up  to  the 
dogcart,  and  touching  his  hat,  proceeds  to  tell 
me  a  perfect  avalanche  of  lies — "  'Ow  the 
little  grey  'oss  was  so  very  fresh  and  above 
hisself,  that  he  thought  he  had  better  give  'im 
a  canter  afore  showing  of  'im  the  'ounds. 
Just  as  he  was  agoin'  along  quite  quiet,  hup 
comes  Joe  Gardner,  Mr.  White's  grum.  The 
little  grey  'oss,  'earin'  Joe  come  powderin' 
along  behind,  kicks  hup  'is  'eels,  nearly 
chuckin'  'im,  Tom  Dapper,  hover  'is  'ead"  (I 
wish  to  heavens  he  had),  "and  taking  the 
bit  'tween  his  teeth,  goes  horf  as  'ard  as 
never  he  could  split.  Joe's  'oss,  seeing  the 
little  gery  'oss  go  like  that,  just  does  likewise, 
and  follers  of  'im  ;  but,  Lor'  bless  yer,  sir," 
said  the  impudent  Dapper,  with  a  self-satisfied 
grin  on  his  face,  "  do  you  think  this  little 
'oss ''  (patting  his  neck  as  he  spoke)  "  was 
agoin'  to  let  'im  come  anigh  'im?  Not  he — 
no,  not  if  they  had  galloped  on  for  a  fortnight 


42  MY   DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

he  wouldn't.  Has  for  me  a-tryin'  to  'old  'im, 
it  was  downright  folly." 

At  this  point  I  venture  to  tell  him  that  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  his  story,  and  that 
I  am  perfectly  certain  he  and  the  other  groom 
were  racing  for  their  own  amusement. 

"  Him  race  'is  master's  'osses !  Him !  Well, 
he  was  'urt.  He  wouldn't  do  sich  a  thing,  no, 
not  for  worlds.  He  would  throw  up  his  situa- 
tion that  werry  day  ;  and  has  for  the  trifling 
amount  of  celery  ho  win',  he  wouldn't  haccept 
it  on  no  account :  the  bare  suspicion  of  doing 
such  a  thing  was  more  than  he  could  bear." 

The  end  of  all  this  is  that  I  have  to  eat 
humble  pie  and  almost  beg  my  conscientious 
servant  to  stay  on,  so  very  indignant  is  he  at 
the  idea  of  his  integrity  being  doubted. 

By  this  time  the  reader  may  imagine  it 
was  too  late  to  get  to  the  meet  in  time  to  see 
the  fun;  so,  ordering  Mr.  Dapper  to  ride 
quietly  home,  I  told  my  grinning  Jehu  to 
turn  round  and  drive  back  to  the  inn. 


MY    DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  43 

I  ascertained  on  inquiry  that  in  the  fol- 
lowing week  the  hounds  were  to  meet  at 
"  Elderberries,"  one  of  their  very  best  meets, 
so  I  determined  to  choose  that  fixture  for  my 
first  appearance  in  the  hunting  field.  Order- 
ing Mr.  Dapper  only  to  exercise  "Grey  Peter" 
until  then,  and  on  no  accouut  to  hunt  him, 
I  betook  myself  back  to  town. 

That  evening  my  top-boots  arrived,  so  the 
next  morning,  after  breakfast,  I  arrayed  my- 
self in  full  hunting  costume,  and  had  a  good 
look  at  myself  in  the  cheval  glass.  I  was 
considerably  pleased  with  my  appearance, 
and  felt  quite  the  Nimrod. 

At  last  the  important  day  arrived.  I  pre- 
pared myself  for  it  by  going  to  bed  early  the 
night  before,  only  indulging  in  one  brandy - 
and-soda  and  one  cigar  in  the  course  of  the 
evening.  Euston  Square  reached,  I  dis- 
covered several  brother  sportsmen,  in  various 
descriptions  of  greatcoats,  all  going  to  the 
same  destination. 


44  MY   DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

I  got  into  a  carriage  in  which  were  three 
swells,  who,  I  very  soon  discovered  from 
their  conversation,  were  in  some  cavalry  regi- 
ment. In  one  corner  of  the  carnage  sat  a 
particularly  crusty-looking  old  gentleman, 
evidently  not  going  to  hunt,  who  proceeded 
to  light  a  huge  cigar,  then  to  wrap  himself 
up  comfortably  in  a  rug  made  of  some 
foreign  foxes'  skins,  with  the  brushes  dangling 
outside;  that  accomplished,  he  gave  a  scowl 
all  round,  and  settled  himself  well  down  to 
the  Times. 

The  three  young  swells  opposite  him 
laughed  and  chattered  like  a  lot  of  magpies, 
making  an  awful  row,  much  to  the  crusty  old 
gent's  disgust,  who  kept  looking  up  from  his 
Times  and  glaring  at  them  most  indignantly. 
It  only  made  them  worse,  and  at  last  I  heard 
the  liveliest  of  the  three  whisper  to  his  com- 
rades, "  I'll  have  such  a  lark  directly  with 
the  old  buffer." 

We  had  not  to  wait  long,  for  this  cheerful 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  45 

young  man,  after  staring  at  the  unconscious 
old  gentleman's  rug  for  about  three  minutes, 
suddenly  said  in  a  loud  voice,  very  slowly 
and  solemnly,  "  I  smell  a  fox  " — as  he  spoke, 
throwing  up  his  head  and  sniffing—"  I  smell 
a  fox.  Tally  ho !  "  he  suddenly  shouted,  at 
the  top  of  his  voice,  nearly  making  the  old 
gentleman  jump  out  of  his  skin.  He  then 
quickly  whipped  out  a  knife  from  his 
breeches  pocket,  and  in  another  second  had 
cut  off  one  of  the  foxes'  brushes  from  the  old 
gent's  rug.  "  Who-hoop  ! "  shouted  he, 
waving  it  over  his  head,  "Who-hoop!" 
Down  went  the  window,  and  crying,  "Worry! 
worry !  worry ! "  away  went  the  brush 
out  of  it  to  imaginary  hounds.  That  feat 
accomplished  he  sank  back  into  his  seat  and 
roared  with  laughter,  joined  by  his  two 
friends.  I  could  not  help  laughing  myself. 

As  for  the  old  gentleman,  I  never  saw 
a  man  in  such  a  rage  ;  his  face  turned  per- 
fectly purple.  He  shook  his  fist  in  the  face 


46  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

of  his  enemy,  and  gasped  out — for  he  could 
scarcely  articulate  with  rage — "  Your  name 

and  address,  you — you — you  d d  young 

scoundrel?" 

The  mischievous  plunger  laughed  louder 
than  ever,  and  I  really  think  the  old  gentle- 
man would  have  pitched  into  him,  but  luckily 
just  at  that  moment  the  train  stopped. 

"Whichford!  Whichford!  Change  here 
for  Stackmansworth ! "  shouted  a  porter. 
Out  jumped  the  old  gentleman  like  a  har- 
lequin ;  out  got  the  three  plungers. 

"  Now,  then,  you  vagabond,"  said  the  old 
boy  collaring  his  man,  and  pulling  out  his 
note-book  and  pencil,  "  I  insist  on  you  giving 
me  your  name  and  address." 

"  All  right,  guv'nor ;  pop  it  down,  old 
chap.  Captain  -  "  he  begins. 

"  Captain,"  writes  the  old  gentleman. 
"  Well,  sir,  go  on." 

"I'll  tell  you  the  rest  another  time,"  re- 
plies the  plunger.  And,  so  saying,  he  pulls 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  47 

the  old  fellow's  travelling  cap  well  over  his 
eyes,  and  runs  off,  followed  by  his  friends  ; 
and  is  halfway  down  the  station  stairs  before 
his  victim  can  extricate  himself.  When  he 
does,  he  stamps  and  raves,  and  curses  like 
a  madman. 

"  Hany  more  for  the  Liverpool  train  ?" 
shouts  a  porter.  "  Now,  sur,  are  you  going 
on  ?  Train's  just  starting." 

The  poor  gentleman  is  going  to  Liverpool, 
so  he  was  obliged  to  go  off,  after  all,  without 
discovering  his  enemy's  name. 

"Halloo!"  exclaims  a  cheery  voice  at 
my  elbow.  "Fancy  seeing  you  here!"  and 
turning  round,  I  beheld  the  jolly  counte- 
nance of  my  friend  John  Bustleby  beaming 
with  good  nature  from  under  a  velvet  cap. 

John  is,  like  myself,  in  the  city,  and  hunts 
regularly,  as  luck  will  have  it,  with  the 
O.H.H.  In  fact,  he  keeps  his  three  horses 
at  the  Plantagenet  Arms,  so  he  will  be  able 
to  put  me  in  the  way  of  things. 


48*  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

Away  we  go  to  our  hotel  to  look  after 
the  horses.  "Grey  Peter"  is  ready  saddled 
and  turned  round  in  his  stable.  Very  bloom- 
ing and  cocky  he  looks  as  he  is  led  out ; 
he  seems  to  like  the  look  of  a  red  coat. 
John  Bustleby  expresses  his  opinion  that 
he  looks  like  going  all  over  ;  and  he  cer- 
tainly feels  like  it,  moving  jauntily  along, 
like  a  cat  on  hot  bricks. 

We  have  got  about  six  miles  to  ride  before 
we  get  to  the  meet,  so  we  jog  on  a  bit. 
Turning  sharp  round  a  corner,  we  suddenly 
come  upon  the  hounds,  the  huntsmen  and 
whips  dressed  in  yellow  plush.  The  grey 
gets  disagreeably  excited  at  the  sight  of 
them,  turning  his  head  about,  and  jerking 
at  his  bit,  until  the  reins  keep  slipping 
through  my  fingers. 

"Jezebel!  Jezebel!"  holloas  a  whip. 
Jezebel  is  close  to  my  horse's  heels  ;  I  hope 
to  goodness  he  won't  kick. 

JiS>  J°g>  jiggk,   joggle,  on   we  go.      At 


MY    DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  49 

last  we  come  to  a  village,  the  inhabitants 
of  which  turn  out  en  masse  to  greet  us. 
"Look  at  the  pretty  fox-dogs,"  the  women 
tell  their  children. 

Just  out  of  the  village  are  the  park  gates 
of  "Elderberries."  It  has  recently  been 
sold,  and  its  new  proprietor  took  the  first 
opportunity  of  adding  on  "  Park "  to  its  old 
title  of ' '  Elderberries. ' '  The  natives,  however, 
still  call  it  by  the  old  name,  and  probably 
will  for  years  to  come.  The  house  is  at 
the  top  of  a  hill ;  and  getting  on  the  grass, 
the  huntsmen  and  whips  put  their  horses 
into  a  canter — an  example  we  follow,  the 
grey  testifying  his  delight  at  getting  on 
the  turf  by  giving  a  tremendous  kick  up, 
sending  me  well  on  to  his  neck.  I  was 
as  near  off  as  a  toucher.  Luckily  it's  uphill 
now,  so  I  just  let  him  go. 

The  hounds  pull  up  in  front  of  the  house, 
a  rather  gloomy -looking  mansion  ;  and  now 
comes  disaster  No.  1.  The  hounds  stopped 


50  MY    DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

so  suddenly  that  I  could  not  pull  up  the 
grey  in  time  ;  the  consequence  is  that  he 
goes  yawing  and  boring,  pulling  my  arms  off 
nearly,  straight  at  the  pack  ;  and,  before  one 
can  say  Jack  Robinson,  we  are  bang  in  the 
middle  of  them.  The  lady  pack,  too.  Barmaid 
and  Termagant  run  yelping  away ;  Gay  Lass, 
the  best  bitch  in  the  pack,  gets  a  hot  one  in  the 
ribs ;  Brilliant  is  sent  flying  one  way,  Dorothy 
another.  There  is  a  regular  hullabaloo. 

The  huntsman  and  master — the  latter  was 
on  foot,  and  narrowly  escaped  being  knocked 
over — abuse  me  most  frightfully,  whilst  the 
grey  gallops  on  until  he  is  brought  to  by  a 
wire  fence  into  a  belt  running  along  the  side 
of  the  park,  which,  luckily  for  me,  he  does 
not  take  it  into  his  head  to  jump.  I  then 
sneak  back  again,  good  John  Bustleby 
meeting  me  half  way ;  and  I  get  him  to 
apologize,  for  the  grey's  bad  behaviour,  to 
the  master  who  is  a  friend  of  his.  There  is 
not  much  damage  done,  luckily. 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS.  51 

John  then  proceeds  to  point  out  the  great 
guns  of  the  hunt  to  me.  "  There,  see  that 
tall,  thin  man,  in  pink  and  high  jack-boots; 
his  name's  Lobb,  and  he's  far  and  away  the 
best  man  here — you  go  where  he  goes,  and 
you'll  be  in  at  the  finish,  I  know.  The  odd- 
looking  man  he's  talking  to,  with  a  cap  and 
the  yellow  handkerchief  round  his  neck,  is  the 
eccentric  William  Maple.  What  a  bird  he  is ! 
There  are  hundreds  of  stories  of  him  and  his 
oddities.  I'll  tell  you  one  rare  good  thing 
he  once  did.  He  came  down  from  town  by 
the  last  train  one  night  to  Whichford  •  his 
hou^se  being  about  three  miles  from  there,  and 
his  cai^iage  not  being  there  to  meet  him,  he 
hired  a  fly.  When  about  a  mile  from  home 
he  very  quietly  opened  the  door,  and,  jumping 
out,  got  over  a  fence  and  reached  home  by  a 
short  cut  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
the  fly.  Down  jumped  the  flyman  and  rang 
the  front- door  bell.  Down  comes  the  butler : 
says  he,  'What  do  you  want  this  time  of 


52  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

night?'  'Wot  do  I  want?  that's  a  good 
un,'  says  the  flyman.  '  Why,  I've  brought 
Mr.  Maple,  to  be  sure,  from  the  station.' 
'  Brought  Mr.  Maple !  Why,  you  must  be 
dreaming,  man  alive  ;  he's  been  abed  long 
ago.'  The  flyman  opens  the  door  of  the 
carriage,  and  can  scarcely  believe  his  eyes 
when  he  finds  it  empty.  To  increase  his 
wonder,  down  comes  William  Maple  himself, 
in  his  dressing-gown,  to  know  what  all  the 
noise  is  about.  However,  after  a  bit,  the 
flyman  is  told  the  trick  that  has  been  played 
him  ;  and,  putting  his  korse  up,  he  and  the 
butler  spend  a  pleasant  evening  together." 

The  majority  of  the  field  seems  composed 
of  Londoners.  "That  fat  man  there,"  says 
John,  "  is  Mr.  Pell,  the  great  can  die  maker. 
The  party  in  black,  on  the  good-looking 
chestnut,  is  Mr.  Varnish,  the  well-known 
upholsterer.  The  man  in  pink  yonder  is 
Barege,  the  haberdasher,  of  Regent  Street- 
subscribes  his  fifty  to  the  hounds,  does 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS.  53 

Barege.  The  chap  in  gig-lamps,  on  the 
piebald,  is  Green,  the  army  tailor" — and  so 
on. 

The  hounds  now  begin  to  move  off,  and 
"  Grey  Peter"  begins  to  fidget  horribly. 
"  Woh !  you  brute.  Keep  still,  do." 

"  We'd  better  jog  on,"  says  John. 

So  we  follow  in  their  wake,  the  grey  going 
along  sideways  and  sweating  with  excitement, 
the  reins  slipping  through  my  fingers  every 
minute.  "Woh!  do." 

In  fiv  eminutes'  time  we  arrive  at  the  cover, 
a  beautiful  bit  of  gorse  running  up  the  side 
of  a  hill.  The  hounds  are  in  as  we  get 
there. 

"  Hoick  to  Governess!  Ho-o-o-i-c-k !  " 
cheers  the  huntsman. 

"There  he  is!"  shouts  a  farmer  at  my 
elbow,  standing  up  in  his  stirrups. 

What  a  bustle  there  is  in  a  second  !  The 
grey  quivers  with  excitement.  The  farmer 
is  right ;  the  fox  who  was  probably  curled 


54  MY    DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

up   fast   asleep,  jumps   up   right   under   old 
Priestess's  very  nose. 

"  There's  music  for  you!"  says  an  excited 
old  gentleman  in  scarlet,  at  my  side. 

Away  gallop  the  field  like  a  charge  of 
cavalry.  The  grey,  mad  with  excitement, 
gets  his  head  down,  and  we  are  off  like  a 
shot  out  of  a  gun.  Bang  we  go  up  against 
a  lady  in  a  velvet  cap  and  grey  habit  trimmed 
with  black  braid,  a  la  hussar.  "  Woh !  you 
infernal  brute."  I  fancy,  as  we  go  by  like 
the  wind,  I  hear  the  words  "  Confounded 
muff! "  issue  from  the  lips  of  the  fair  horse- 
woman. A  flight  of  rails  is  in  view.  There 
is  a  gate  through  which  the  crowd  is  hust- 
ling ;  I  try  and  guide  the  grey  to  it.  Not  a 
bit  of  it.  A  sporting,  black -bearded  farmer 
on  a  young  good-looking  chestnut,  and  a 
swell  in  scarlet,  go  at  the  rails,  and  before  I 
can  say  knife  "  Grey  Peter  "  is  in  the  air.  I 
thought  we  should  never  come  down.  Land- 
ing with  a  tremendous  jolt,  both  my  feet  get 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  55 

out  of  the  stirrups,  my  reins  are  nowhere,  and 
in  another  second  I  find  myself  rolling  on  the 
ground  on  my  back.  I  make  a  grab  at  the 
reins,  which  "  Grey  Peter"  acknowledges  with 
a  hearty  kick,  curse  him !  as  he  gallops  off. 

The  farmer  in  front  of  me,  looking  round 
and  seeing  what  has  happened,  catches  the 
grey  as  he  comes  up,  and  politely  holds  him 
until  I  run  up  to  him,  puffing  and  blowing, 
for  I  am  quite  exhausted.  I  wish  with  all 
my  heart  he  had  let  him  go.  "  Now,  sir, 
jump  up  ;  hounds  are  running  like  smoke," 
says  he,  throwing  me  the  reins. 

I  scramble  up  somehow,  and  follow  my  new 
friend  through  a  hand  gate  into  a  small  cover 
and  down  a  ride,  the  grey  going  better  now 
he  is  with  another  horse.  There  is  a  stile 
out  of  the  wood,  and  from  it  we  see  the  backs 
of  the  leading  division  topping  the  fence  out 
of  the  field  beyond. 

The  farmer's  mind  is  made  up  on  the  spot ; 
he  runs  his  horse  best  pace  at  the  stile.  "It's 


56  MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS. 

nothing  of  a  place,"  he  shouts,  turning  round 
in  his  saddle  as  he  lands. 

I  daren't  brave  it ;  the  more  I  look  the  less 
I  like  it.  I  persuade  myself  very  easily  that 
it  is  a  very  nasty  place  ;  so  I  turn  the  dis- 
appointed "Grey  Peter"  down  a  side  ride, 
hoping  to  find  a  friendly  gate. 

Alas !  when  I  get  to  the  end  of  the  ride  I 
only  find  a  fence,  on  the  other  side  of  which 
is  a  cottage,  with  garden  attached,  in  which 
latter  an  old  woman  in  a  huge  bonnet  is 
digging  away  like  fun.  I  see  that  the  other 
side  of  the  cottage  is  the  high-road,  along 
which  are  no  end  of  red- coated  sportsmen 
pounding  along.  There  is  a  nice  gap  in  the 
fence,  too,  so  I  take  the  grey  back  a  few 
paces  preparatory  to  putting  him  boldly  at  it. 

At  this  moment  the  old  woman,  looking  up 
from  her  digging,  suddenly  catches  sight  of 
me.  She  makes  gallantly  for  the  gap,  three - 
pronged  fork  in  hand,  and  stands  there  in  a 
menacing  attitude,  like  an  Amazon  of  old. 


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MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  57 

"No,  no,  my  good  man,"  says  she,  in  a 
shrill  treble  voice.  "  My  grandmother  to 
that!  You  don't  come  over  'ere,  a  gallerpin' 
and  tramplin'  over  my  garding — not  while 
I'm  here,  leastways.  Why,  what  the  drowse 
(deuce)  d'ye  mean?  You  go  and  take  yer 
nasty  rid  coat  away  from  here." 

Bother  this  horrid  old  creature !  she 
won't  listen  to  reason.  The  longer  I  talk 
the  worse  she  gets.  At  last  a  happy  thought 
strikes  me ;  I'll  try  bribery.  So  I  begin 
with  the  offer  of  half-a-crown.  No,  not  a  bit 
of  it.  Five  shillings,  then.  "  Well,  five  shillin' 
do  I  say?  Well,  perhaps  if  I  give  her  five 
shillin',  her  good  man,  when  he  comes  home, 
won't  say  so  much  about  my  tramplin'  over 
the  garding  stuff." 

So  that  bargain  concluded,  I  throw  the  old 
lady  two  half-crowns,  and  she  promptly 
removes  herself  away  from  the  gap  in  the 
hedge. 

I  put  the  grey  in  the  most  gallant  manner 


58  MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

at  it,  and  we  get  over  beautifully,  and, 
crossing  the  "  garding,"  are  soon  in  the  road. 
The  grey,  catching  sight  of  a  red  coat 
pounding  along  in  front,  begins  to  pull  once 
more,  and  breaks  into  a  canter.  Clatter, 
clatter,  clatter  we  go  along  the  stony  road. 
We  soon  managed  to  pass  the  hindmost 
sportsmen.  I  don't  care  a  rap  now  we  are 
out  of  those  horrid  fields — like  the  highway- 
man, my  song  is  "  Hurrah  for  the  Road!"  I 
don't  know  where  the  hounds  are,  and  don't 
care  either ;  I  can't  see  them  anywhere,  and, 
what  is  more,  don't  want  to. 

By-and-bye  I  pass  two  more  fat  sportsmen, 
very  red  in  the  face,  and  perspiring  muchly. 

"  Where  are  the  'ounds?"  cries  one  fatty, 
as  I  pass  at  a  hand  canter. 

I  point  straight  forward  with  my  whip. 
What  a  sportsman  he  no  doubt  thinks  me ! 

I  like  this  much — nothing  to  stop  us.  I  hope 
we  may  go  along  the  road  for  miles.  Ough ! 
My  horse  suddenly  shies  at  a  wheelbarrow  ; 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  59 

in  a  second  I  am  floundering  in  the  road, 
my  hat  smashed,  and  my  clothes  all  mud, 
and  my  horse  with  his  head  up  and  feet 
out,  tugging  at  the  reins,  which  I  luckily 
have  hold  of.  Oh,  I'll  never  come  out  hunt- 
ing again !  Up  come  the  fatties  I  passed  just 
now,  puffing  and  wheezing  like  so  many 
grampuses. 

"  'Ope  you're  not  hurt,  sir,"  says  one. 

"No,  all  right,  thank  you;"  and  on 
they  go. 

That  brute  "  Grey  Peter"  will  not  stand  still. 
"Woh!  you  confounded  beast!"  I  make  a 
dive  at  the  stirrup,  which  I  miss.  "Will 
you  stand  still,  sir?" 

"  Stop  a  bit,  master,  whilst  I  'old  un  for 
ye,"  says  a  grinning  ploughman,  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge,  whom  I  had  not  observed. 
Good-natured  Mr.  Chawbacon  clambers  pon- 
derously over  the  fence,  and  jumps  down  from 
the  bank  much  in  the  clumsy  sort  of  way 
an  elephant  would;  and  with  his  assistance 


60  MY    DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS. 

I  once  more  clamber  up  into  my  saddle, 
and  having  endowed  my  rustic  friend  with  a 
shilling,  again  start  on  my  journey. 

I  am  so  tired  I  should  like  to  walk,  if  "  Grey 
Peter"  would  let  me,  which  he  won't.  I  think 
I  will  have  a  sandwich,  also  a  drop  of  sherry. 
I  have  just  unscrewed  the  top  of  my  flask, 
and  stuffed  my  mouth  with  a  sandwich,  when 
—what  makes  my  horse  suddenly  prick  up 
his  ears  and  neigh?  It's  those  confounded 
hounds  again.  Twang,  twang,  twang,  goes 
a  horn  in  the  distance,  and — what's  that?  By 
Jove !  its  a  fox.  Dead  beat,  too — even  I  can 
see  that.  He  crosses  the  road,  is  through 
the  fence,  and  stealing  away  across  the  field 
beyond. 

"Tally  ho!"  I  holloa,  as  well  as  I  can 
with  my  mouth  full.  "  Yow,  yow,  yow ! "  I 
see  them  now  plainly  two  fields  off.  Here 
they  come,  the  huntsman  close  up.  A  lady 
next,  by  Jove!  How  well  she  jumped  that 
fence !  And  by  the  powers,  only  about  four 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  61 

other  people  with  them,  one  of  them  the 
man  in  jack-boots,  Mr.  Lobb.  Over  the  fence, 
into  the  road,  scramble  the  hounds,  bristling 
for  blood ;  they  cross  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Pretty  sight !  pretty  sight !  Over  goes  the 
huntsman,  then  Mr.  Lobb,  then  the  lady. 
The  grey  can  stand  it  no  longer,  but  just 
takes  the  bit  between  his  teeth  and  goes  at 
the  fence  fifty  miles  an  hour.  How  I  stick 
on  I  don't  know,  and  we  are  half  across  the 
pasture  beyond  before  I  know  where  we 
are.  A  rustic  holds  open  the  gate  into  the 
next  field,  and  with  some  difficulty  I  manage 
to  steer  the  grey  through  it.  Mr.  Lobb  and 
the  lady,  who  I  heard  him  call  Miss  Kitty, 
jump  the  fence,  and  are  now  galloping  along 
side  by  side. 

At  the  end  of  the  next  field  is  a  pretty 
little  house,  and  over  the  iron  railings  in 
front  of  it  the  hounds  are  now  clambering. 
I  notice  as  soon  as  they  are  over  they  turn 
sharp  to  the  left.  My  grey,  pulling  hard, 


62  MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

puts  his  resolute  head  straight  for  the  rails, 
notwithstanding  all  my  efforts  to  stop  him 
or  turn  him.  I  have  often  read  in  the 
papers  of  the  fearful  accidents  arising  from 
wire  fences  ;  so,  determined  not  to  be  killed, 
if  I  could  help  it,  I  threw  myself  off  as  he 
rose  in  the  air,  and  rolled  over  and  over 
like  a  rabbit  on  the  trim  lawn.  The  grey 
with  a  neigh  of  delight,  kicks  up  his  heels 
and  gallops  all  over  the  lawn.  He  then 
jumps  the  rails  again,  nearly  landing  on  old 
Rosamond,  who  is  rather  behindhand. 

Well,  this  is  a  pretty  go !  Here  am  I,  in 
front  of  a  gentleman's  house,  half  stunned, 
very  dirty,  and  horseless.  I  was  just  con- 
sidering what  to  do,  when  I  heard  some  one 
shout,  "  Here's  another  of  those  trespassing 
scoundrels !  Seize  him,  Watch !  seize  him, 
good  dog ! "  And  forth  from  one  of  the 
French  windows  of  the  house,  opening  on  to 
the  lawn,  bounces  a  little  old  gentleman 
purple  with  rage,  in  a  green  and  red 


MY   DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  63 

dressing-gown,  and  slippers  to  match,  armed 
with  a  huge  stick,  and  bounding  after  him,  bark- 
ing horribly,  comes  a  great  black  yard- dog. 

I  can't  stand  this,  so  I  turn  tail  and  make 
a  rush  at  the  rails.  Unfortunately,  scramb- 
ling over,  my  spur  catches  in  one  of  the  bars, 
and  down  I  go  on  my  face  the  other  side. 
The  beast  of  a  dog  comes  over  with  a  rush 
and  a  bound,  right  atop  of  me.  If  he  were 
a  terrier  he  would  probably  go  straight  at 
my  neck  ;  as  it  is,  he  begins  at  my  coat- 
tails,  which  he  tears  off  one  by  one.  He  then 
goes  at  my  breeches,  and  in  spite  of  my 
kicking,  gives  me  a  fearful  bite. 

"Murder!  murder!"  I  shout  at  the  top 
of  my  voice. 

The  old  gentleman,  puffing  and  blowing, 
is  now  getting  over  the  rails,  thank  good- 
ness. 

"Down,  Watch!  down,  sir! — Now  sir," 
begins  he,  as  I  slowly  rise,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  trespassing  on  my  lawn  in  that 


64:  MY   DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

disgraceful   way?     Are  you  aware,   sir 

Good  God !    what !    Samuel  ?  "    he  suddenly 
exclaims. 

"  What !  Uncle  Joe?  "  I  ejaculate  feebly. 

The  old  gentleman,  in  truth,  is  no  other 
than  my  uncle  Joseph  Buzzer.  I  had  heard 
he  had  retired  from  business,  and  had  bought 
a  little  place  somewhere  in  Crampshire,  but 
had  no  idea  where. 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  I  began,  penitently,  "  I 
am  extremely  sorry.'' 

"Oh,  Samuel,  Samuel!"  said  Uncle  Joe 
"  what  would   your   poor   father   have    said 
could  he  have  beheld  you  in  this  costoom  ?     I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you,   Samuel, 
unless  I  had  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.— 
Down,  Watch,  down!"  (that  redoubtable  dog 
will  keep  sniffing  suspiciously  at  my  legs).— 
"  Come  into  the  house,  for  goodness  sake." 

So,  having  gathered  up  my  smashed  hat, 
my  whip,  and  my  coat  tails,  torn  of  by 
Watch,  I  followed  Uncle  Joe  into  the  house. 


MY    DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  65 

"  Hemma  !  "  he  bawls  directly  we  get  into 
the  little  hall,  "  Hemma,  come  and  see  the 
trespasser.  Who  d'ye  think  it  is  ?  ' 5 

His  pretty  daughter  and  only  child,  Emma, 
comes  running  downstairs.  "  What!  Cousin 
Sam  ?  Goodness  gracious,  what  a  state  you 
are  in !  " 

I  am  indeed  in  a  state,  and  without  loss  of 
time  proceed  to  Uncle  Joe's  room,  where  I 
not  only  have  a  good  wash,  but  borrow 
some  of  his  clothes,  including  a  pair  of 
trousers,  for  his  brute  of  a  dog  has  done  for 
my  leather  breeches.  After  a  bit  down  I 
came,  and  found  a  sumptuous  luncheon  set 
out,  my  uncle  bringing  out  some  curious 
brown  sherry 

I  found  out  that  since  he  had  been  settled 
in  Crampshire  he  had  been  nearly  worried  to 
death  by  hounds  of  one  kind  or  another. 
First,  Her  Majesty's  Staghounds  paid  him  a 
visit,  the  stag  bucking  about  all  over  his 
kitchen  garden,  and  knocking  him  (Uncle 


66  MY    DAY   WITH    THE    HOUNDS. 

Joe)  over  on  his  back.  Then  came  a  scratch 
pack  with  a  bay  fox,  which  wretched  animal 
took  refuge  in  his  greenhouse,  the  hounds 
after  him,  playing  old  gooseberry  with  the 
flower-pots.  The  O.H.H.,  too,  last  winter, 
had  paid  him  several  unwelcome  visits. 

I  promised  him  that  in  future  I  would 
eschew  the  chase ;  in  fact,  on  my  own 
account,  let  alone  his,  I  was  thoroughly  and 
completely  disgusted  with  it. 

"  Grey  Peter"  was  brought  back  with  a  bad 
over-reach,  and  dead  lame.  It  appeared  that 
the  hounds  ran  into  their  fox  in  the  open, 
about  two  miles  from  my  uncle's  house, 
"Grey  Peter"  well  in  front;  he  pulled  up 
when  they  killed,  and  the  huntsman,  recog- 
nizing him,  gave  him  a  cut  with  his 
whip  and  started  him  off,  and  he  appears 
to  have  galloped  and  jumped  himself 
to  a  standstill. 

At  Uncle  Joseph's  earnest  solicitation,  I 
telegraphed  to  town  for  nay  things,  and  paid 


MY   DAY    WITH    THE    HOUNDS.  67 

him  a  fortnight's  visit  at  his  little  house, 
"  The  Myrtles."  At  the  end  of  that  fortnight 
I  discovered  that  I  liked  his  daughter 
Emma  better  than  anybody  in  the  world,  and 
was  delighted  to  find  that  I  was  anything 
but  indifferent  to  her — in  short,  I  proposed 
and  was  accepted.  Uncle  Joe  was  as  pleased 
as  Punch,  and  he  testified  his  delight  that 
evening  by  producing  some  extremely  curious 
madeira,  that,  on  the  top  of  a  skinful  of 
claret,  was  too  much  for  the  worthy  old 
gentleman,  who  had  to  be  helped  to  bed 
by  myself  and  the  man-servant. 

Emma,  I  am  pleased  to  say,  is  now 
my  wife. 

"  Grey  Peter"  may  be  seen  most  days  of  the 
week,  in  the  afternoon,  waiting  for  me  at  my 
office  with  the  brougham,  behaving  himself 
with  much  more  decorum  than  he  did  in  the 
hunting  field. 

Watch  has  become  one  of  my  best  friends. 

My  wife,  who  is  sitting,  as  I  write,  read- 


68  MY   DAY   WITH   THE   HOUNDS. 

ing  the  last  new  novel,  looks  up  with  one  of 
her  cheerful  smiles ;  and  I  think,  when  I  look 
at  her,  how  out  of  evil  often  comes  good, 
and  what  a  lucky  thing  it  was  I  went  hunting 
that  day.  One  of  Uncle  Joe's  standing  jokes 
with  me  is  that,  "  though  werry  unsuccessful 
after  the  fox,  I  was  werry  good  in  chasing  the 
dear  (deer)."  I  have  never  troubled  the 
hounds  since  that  day,  and  don't  suppose  I 
ever  shall.  However,  as  the  great  Dr. 
Cupper  insists  on  my  taking  plenty  of 
exercise,  I  have  taken  a  small  place  a  short 
distance  from  Uncle  Joe's,  where  my  wife 
and  I  disport  ourselves  at  lawn  tennis.  With 
that  healthy  amusement,  and  plenty  of 
country  walks,  I  find  that  my  brain  is  swept 
pretty  clean  of  cobwebs.  Occasionally,  in 
our  walks,  my  wife  and  I  catch  a  glimpse  of 
my  old  friends  the  O.H.H.,  yellow  coats  and 
all.  Good  sport  to  them ! 

My  tale  is  told.     All  I  have  to  say  in  con- 
clusion is  that,  though   I   don't  wish   for  it 


MY   DAY   WITH   THE    HOUNDS.  69 

over  again,  still  I  shall  never  regret,  as  long 
as  I  live,  "  My  Day  with  the  Hounds." 

Says  Uncle  Joe,  "  No,  more  you  nought, 
you  dog !" 

Says  my  wife — nothing,  but  squeezes  my 
arm,  and  gives  me  a  kiss,  for  all  that. 


"THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE 
GOLDEN  LOCKS," 


CHAPTER  I. 

mind  old  fellow;  ' Faint  heart  never 
won  fair  lady/  you  know.  Take  my  advice, 
don't  go  near  the  cruel  one  until  after  the 
hunt  steeplechase,  this  day  week,  is  over.  In 
the  meantime,  ride  ' Becky  Sharp'  in  her 
gallops  steadily  every  day,  go  to  bed  early, 
eschew  too  much  brandy-and-soda  and  too 
many  cigars,  keep  cool,  and  win  the  big  race 
in  a  canter.  Go  to  the  ball  that  night,  and 
I'll  bet  you  my  commission  to  a  bottle  of  soda 
water  that,  by  supper-time,  you'll  have  not 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     71 

only  won  the  hunt  cup,  but  the  'Fayre  One 
with  ye  Golden  Locks'  into  the  bargain." 

So  spake  Cousin  Charlie  Moore,  captain  of 
the  106th  Dragoon  Guards — qualifying  his 
speech  with  a  huge  draught  of  gin  and 
seltzer,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar,  and  composing 
himself  in  the  easiest  of  armchairs  for  my 
reply. 

Before  I  go  any  further,  I  must  inform  my 
readers  who  Cousin  Charlie  is,  who  I  am,  and 
who  the  young  lady  designated  by  him  "  The 
Fayre  One  with  ye  Golden  Locks  ;"  and  as 
the  play -writers  have  it,  the  whole  argument 
of  the  piece,  and  the  reason  for  the  afore-given 
lecture. 

I,  John  George  Arthur  Temple,  commonly 
called,  by  nearly  all  those  I  number  amongst 
my  intimate  friends,  "Johnnie,"  am  the  only 
son  of  my  mother  (and  she  is  a  widow), 
am  just  turned  three-and-twenty,  and  am 
the  proud  possessor  of  £4,000  a  year,  four 
hunters  (including  the  fore-mentioned  "Becky 


72  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

Sharp  "),  two  harness  horses,  a  hack,  and  a 
clever  pony,  a  brace  of  pointers,  two  terriers, 
and  a  retriever. 

I  live  here  all  alone  with  my  mother,  and 
my  address  (for  the  benefit  of  the  curious)  is 
Ryslip  House,  Be'dbury,  Blankshire. 

Ryslip  House,  standing  in  its  own  grounds, 
beautifully  wooded,  and  within  reach  of  three 
packs  of  foxhounds,  as  the  auctioneers  would 
describe  it. 

I  ought  to  be  a  happy  man,  says  every  one, 
with  all  these  advantages  ;  but  I  am  not,  un- 
fortunately— very  far  from  it. 

I  am  in  love ! 

Yes,  it  is  too  true — cruel,  cruel  Blanche 
Dashwood!  for  the  last  six  months  I  have 
been  utterly  unable  to  get  your  wicked  blue 
eyes  and  wavy  golden  hair  out  of  my  mind. 
Why  do  I  shoot  so  badly,  day  after  day, 
missing  rocketer  after  rocketer,  tailoring 
hares,  and  letting  that  sporting  bird  the 
woodcock  fly  gaily  by  unseen?  until  the  old 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     73 

keeper,  who  has  lived  here  all  his  life,  says 
he  can't  make  it  out  at  all,  what  Master 
Johnnie  is  up  tew  with  hisself.  Why  do  I, 
when  I  take  up  the  paper,  find  myself  sud- 
denly reading  it  carefully  upside  down? 

Why  do  I  come  down  looking  so  seedy  in 
the  morning,  that  I  cause  my  fond  mother  to 
exclaim,  "  Johnnie,  Johnnie,  I  am  sure  you 
smoke  too  much,  my  dear — you  look  so  dread- 
fully pale!''  And  finally,  why  do  I,  when 
hounds  are  not  running,  catch  sharp  hold  of 
"Becky  Sharp's"  head,  and  lark  that  clever 
animal  over  every  conceivable  thing,  making 
her  toss  her  head  about  with  such  strange 
treatment,  and  going  the  right  way  to  make 
her  as  irritable  as  myself? 

Why  do  I  do  all  these  extraordinary 
things  ?  My  heart  answers  for  me — Blanche ! 
Blanche !  The  facts  of  my  case  are  these : 
I  came  back  from  a  longish  tour  abroad 
about  three  months  ago,  and,  on  my  return, 
found  Blanche,  whom  I  had  known  all  my  life, 


74  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

as  affectionate  as  ever,  seemingly  ;  but,  alas ! 
just  at  that  time  there  comes  down  to  Oak- 
over  Cottage  (a  snug  hunting-box  in  the 
neighbourhood)  a  new  tenant  in  the  shape  of 
a  "Captain  Cutway" — a  dashing  cavalier  just 
sold  out  of  the  Queen's  Roans,  bringing  with 
him  a  nice  lot  of  horses,  and  giving  out  that, 
if  he  likes  the  country,  he  will  either  take 
the  cottage  on  for  some  years,  or  take  a  larger 
place  in  the  neighbourhood.  Well,  this  is  all 
very  pleasant ;  the  captain  seems  a  good  sort 
of  fellow,  has  a  capital  cook  and  undeniable 
drinks,  and  is  altogether  an  acquisition  to 
the  county  ;  but,  confound  him !  he  has  not 
been  here  very  long,  before  he  is  as  thick  as 
thieves  at  the  Mulberries — old  General  Dash- 
wood's  place — the  father  of  my  Blanche.  I 
happened  to  be  there  the  first  time  he  dined 
with  the  general.  It  was  only  a  family 
party — Blanche,  her  companion,  Cutway,  and 
myself,  and,  of  course,  the  general.  He 
took  Blanche  in  to  dinner,  and  monopolized 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     75 

the  whole  of  the  conversation.  I  could  not 
get  a  word  in.  After  dinner,  just  the  same. 
He  quite  ignored  me,  and  fairly  collared  the 
general.  The  latter,  by  the  way,  had  been 
formerly  in  the  captain's  old  regiment — the 
Roans. 

The  old  chief  seemed  quite  charmed  with 
his  new  neighbour.  When  Cutway  was 
taking  leave,  he  says,  shaking  him  cordially 
by  the  hand,  "  You're  not  far  off,  Captain 
Cutway,  you  know  ;  you'll  always  find  me  at 
home  on  Sunday.  Luncheon,  and  a  cigar 
afterwards,  eh !  And  when  the  frost  comes, 
and  you  can't  hunt,  if  you  don't  run  up  to 
town,  my  daughter  and  I  will  always  be 
pleased  to  see  you.'' 

"Many  thanks,"  says  the  captain.  "De- 
pend upon  it,  I'll  take  you  at  your  word, 
general." 

This  he  says  with  a  grin  at  Blanche,  that 
makes  me  very  angry.  After  he  is  gone, 
Blanche  exclaims,  "What  a  nice  man!" 


76  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

"  Such  a  knowledge  of  the  world,"  says  Miss 
Budder,  her  companion  or  sheep  dog.  "  Seems 
a  very  good,  pleasant  fellow,"  echoes  the 
general. 

I  am  quite  glad  when  my  dogcart  is 
announced,  and  I  drive  home  a  great  pace, 
anything  but  pleased  with  the  new  neighbour. 

A  few  nights  afterwards  is  the  Honour- 
able Mrs.  Clinker's  ball.  There  is  this  gay 
captain  as  impudent  as  ever  ;  twirling  his 
moustache,  showing  his  teeth,  and  chattering 
like  a  magpie. 

How  I  begin  to  detest  him!  Blanche 
seems  much  taken  with  him  ;  and  he  not 
only  dances  three  round  dances  and  a  quad- 
rille with  her  in  the  course  of  the  night,  but 
takes  her  down  to  supper  as  well.  I  have 
not  a  chance,  evidently. 

At  last,  when  I  do  have  my  one  dance 
with  her,  I  feel  so  sulky  that  I  can  scarcely 
speak  to  her,  much  to  her  surprise.  She,  like 
my  mother,  says  she  thinks  I  must  be  "  ill." 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.  77 

111,  indeed  ;  enough  to  make  a  fellow  ill,  I 
think  to  myself.  After  our  dance,  she  gives 
me  a  saucy  nod  every  time  we  pass  each 
other.  How  pretty  she  looks!  I  must  say 
" good  night"  to  her,  and  make  friends  ;  and, 
as  I  think  this,  as  good  luck  would  have  it, 
I  heard  her  ask  Captain  Cut  way,  who  was 
having  his  last  dance  with  her,  to  go  and  see 
after  papa,  as  the  carriage  is  waiting.  Off 
he  goes  on  his  errand,  so  I  take  his  place,  and 
nicely  I  am  teased  for  my  pains.  "What 
not  gone  yet,  Johnnie?"  says  Blanche:  "I 
thought  you  were  so  disgusted  with  every- 
thing, you  had  gone  long  ago.  You've 
scarcely  said  a  word  to  me  all  .the  evening, 
and  never  even  asked  me  to  dance  until  I  had 
my  card  quite  full ;  and  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  so  much,  too.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  how 
"  Becky  Sharp  "  was,  and  what  coloured  jacket 
you  are  going  to  wear  in  this  wonderful 
steeplechase.  You  know  I  am  coming  to  see 
you  win." 


78  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

"  Coming  to  see  Captain  Cutway  win,  you 
mean,  Blanche,"  I  retorted,  in  my  grandest 
manner. 

"  Ah,"  says  that  young  lady,  with  a  joyous 
little  laugh,  "I  see  now  what's  the  matter 
with  you — you're  jealous  of  the  captain,  are 
you? — was  he  jealous,  then,  poor  boy?" 

"  Oh,  Blanche,  how  unkind  you  are,"  I 
blurted  out,  and  was  just  going  to  out  with 
it,  and  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  when  a  horrid 
voice  startled  both  of  us— 

"  Here  they  are,  general !  Where  have  you 
been,  Miss  Dash  wood!  The  general  and  I 
have  been  looking  everywhere  for  you." 

It  is  Cutway !  What  a  humbug  the  fellow 
is !  We  have  been  sitting  down  close  by  the 
ball-room  door — in  fact,  just  where  he  left 
Blanche  when  I  came  up. 

"  Now,  Blanchey,  get  your  cloak  on  my 
dear,"  says  the  old  general ;  "the  horses  will 
be  getting  cold." 

So  off  Blanche   goes  on  my  arm,  to   the 


THE  EAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     79 

cloak-room,  the  general  and  Cutway  follow- 
ing. When  she  comes  out  again,  wrapped 
up  for  her  journey  home,  Cutway  manages 
to  shove  his  arm  forward,  and  takes  her  to 
the  carriage.  In  she  gets,  followed  by  the 
general,  whom  the  captain  helps  in,  in  quite  a 
son-in-law  way ;  and  the  old  general  requires 
a  little  help  to  night,  for  he  is  rather  unsteady 
on  his  pins.  "  Good  night,  Johnnie !  "  says 
Blanche,  leaning  forward  in  the  carriage,  and 
waving  her  hand  to  me.  Cutway  has  got 
hold  of  the  carriage -door,  and  monopolizes 
them  completely,  so  I  can't  shake  hands ;  and, 
just  as  the  carriage  is  about  to  drive  off,  his 
hoarse  voice — hoarser  than  usual,  from  the 
goodly  quantity  of  Mrs.  Clinker's  not  very 
first-rate  champagne  he  has  taken — shouts 
out,  with  much  unnecessary  empressement 
and  a  squeeze  of  her  white -gloved  little  hand, 
" Good-bye,  Miss  Dashwood,  good-bye!  The 
next  time  you  see  me  it  will  be  winning  this 
big  steeplechase  in  a  canter.  Mind  you  back 


80  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS- 

me,  to  win  a  fortune  in  gloves."  Off  they 
go ;  and  he  turns  round — "  Halloo,  old  fellow ! 
not  gone  yet,  eh  ?  Come  and  have  a  glass  of 
sherry  before  we  depart.  Good  ball,  hasn't 
it  been?  What  a  jolly  girl  that  Blanchey 
Dash  wood  is,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"Blanchey"  indeed!  think  I;  talking  of 
her  as  if  he  was  the  general  himself.  I 
decline  his  glass  of  sherry,  and  bid  him  good 
night,  and  go  in  search  of  my  hostess  to 
wish  her  the  same  ;  and  ten  minutes  more 
sees  me  driving  home  through  the  slushy 
lanes,  in  the  silence  of  the  dark  night,  or 
rather  morning,  for  it  is  getting  on  for  five 
o'clock.  Twenty  minutes  more  sees  me  to 
the  house,  and,  yawning  all  the  way  up  stairs, 
I  go  to  bed,  and  soon  am  in  the  land  of 
dreams.  And,  yes,  I  think  Mrs.  Clinker's 
champagne  must  certainly  be  very  bad  ;  for, 
first,  I  dreamt  that,  just  as  I  was  winning 
the  hunt  steeplechase  in  a  canter,  hands 
down,  Blanche  suddenly  appears,  and,  shying 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.  81 

a  knock-' em-down  stick  at  me,  knocks  me 
off  my  horse.  And  next,  I  dreamt  that  I 
was  in  a  church,  looking  on  at  Cutway's 
marriage  to  Blanche  Dashwood,  and  the 
parson  was  saying  to  Blanche,  "  Wilt  thou 
have  this  man  to  thy  wedded  husband,'' 
when — bang  ! — smash  ! — ' '  the  Prussians,  by 
Jove  ! "  —and,  waking  up  with  a  start,  I 
am  overjoyed  to  find  that  the  "  Battle  of 
Dorking"  has  not  come  off  this  time,  and 
it  is  only  the  butler,  who  has  overturned 
my  bath  with  a  crash,  and  is  now  pouring 
in  the  icy -cold  water,  which  is  to  freshen 
me  up  for  another  day. 

Three  days  later  arrives  Cousin  Charlie,  the 
giver  of  the  lecture,  the  reasons  for  which 
have  just  been  related. 

Charlie,  who  is  up  to  anything,  from  play- 
ing a  fantasia  of  Thalberg's  to  making  a  book 
on  the  Two  Thousand,  has  come  down  here 
kindly  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  things  for  the 
forthcoming  hunt  steeplechase,  for  which  I 


82  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

have  entered  my  mare,  "Becky  Sharp."  It  is 
the  great  event  of  the  year  in  the  county. 
Every  one  goes,  ladies  and  all ;  and  it  is 
followed  by  a  ball,  which  makes  it  still  more 
popular  with  the  fair  sex.  There  are  other 
races,  of  course,  the  same  day,  but  they  are 
of  very  minor  importance. 

The  hunt  cup  has  the  usual  conditions  of 
such  races  attached  to  it.  "  Gentlemen 
riders,"  of  course.  The  stakes  are  15  sovs. 
each,  five  forfeit,  and  200  sovs.  added ;  and 
the  distance  about  four  miles  of  a  fair  hunt- 
ing country,  with  an  artificial  water-jump 
just  in  front  of  the  stand. 

I  could  not  have  a  better  mentor  for  the 
forthcoming  tournament  than  the  bold 
Charlie ;  for  he  has  won  more  than  one 
regimental  steeplechase,  to  say  nothing  of 
others  at  regular  cross-country  meetings. 

The  morning  after  his  arrival  we  sally 
forth,  after  breakfast,  en  route  for  "Becky 
Sharp's"  abode,  having,  first  of  all,  got  under 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.  83 

weigh  a  couple  of  large  cigars,  the  produce 
of  Charlie's  well-filled  case. 

"  Good  smoke,  ain't  they  ?  "  remarks  that 
extravagant  plunger.  "I  bought  five  hundred 
of  'em  the  other  day,  and  they  only  stand  me 
in  four  guineas  a  pound." 

When  we  reach  the  stables,  we  find  the 
great  Mr.  Twister,  my  stud-groom,  waiting 
for  us  outside,  straw  in  mouth,  of  course,  and 
tapping  his  neat  blucher  boots  with  a  small 
ash  plant  he  carries. 

"  Mornin',  gen'lemen.  Glad  to  see  you 
lookin'  so  well,  capt'in,"  is  his  greeting,  as 
he  takes  the  key  of  "Becky's"  box  out  of  his 
breeches-pocket,  preparatory  to  letting  us  in 
for  the  inspection  of  that  distinguished 
animal. 

But  a  word  about  Mr.  Twister,  who  is  a 
very  great  man  in  his  own  estimation,  and 
that  of  his  fellow-servants  and  companions 
generally.  Indeed,  from  the  awe  with  which 
one  and  all  of  them  seem  to  feel  for  him,  I 


84  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

fancy  that  in  their  eyes  he  is  a  sort  of 
Bismarck  or  Von  Moltke.  He  began  life  as 
a  Newmarket  boy ;  but,  being  rather  too 
fond  of  beef  and  beer,  and  being  a  very 
impudent  dog  besides,  he  did  not  get  on  very 
well  at  the  head-quarters  of  the  Turf;  and 
one  fine  day  Mr.  Sam  Welter,  the  well-known 
trainer,  to  whom  he  was  apprenticed,  and 
who  at  that  period  had  the  first  favourite  for 
the  Derby  in  his  stable,  having  caught  his 
young  friend  in  close  confab  with  a  well- 
known  scamp  of  a  tout,  who  was  evidently 
after  no  good  with  the  lad,  took  the  law  into 
his  own  hands,  and  administered  such  a  lick- 
ing, with  a  ground-ash  stick,  to  Master 
Twister  as  thoroughly  disgusted  that  young 
gentleman  with  the  Turf  and  everything 
connected  with  it  for  some  time  afterwards  ; 
so  shortly  afterwards  he  took  French  leave, 
as  the  saying  is,  and  took  himself  off  from 
the  Turf  metropolis. 

He  next  appeared  upon  the  scene  as  groom 


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THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     85 

to  a  young  swell  who  had  just  left  Oxford, 
and  who  was  going  the  pace  as  hard  as  ever 
he  could.  So  good  did  he  make  it,  that  he 
brought  himself  to  a  standstill  in  rather  less 
than  three  years,  and  a  very  pleasant  three 
years  I  have  no  doubt  he  had,  and  Mr. 
Twister,  too.  Indeed,  that  worthy,  on  re- 
ferring to  his  late  master,  would  say,  with 
much  feeling,  "  Well,  of  all  the  free-handed, 
liberal  gents  as  hever  I  set  eyes  on — and  I've 
seen  a  many,  mind  you — I  never  came  across 
sech  an  out-an -outer  as  'im,  '  daggered '  if 
hever  I  did."  Of  course,  at  the  end  of  three 
years,  Mr  Twister  had  to  look  out  for  him- 
self again. 

The  next  thing  that  was  seen  of  him  was 
riding  a  steeplechase  at  Monaco,  in  the 
colours  of  that  well-known  continental  sports- 
man, Count  Alphonse  de  Leduc,  who  em- 
ployed him  as  private  trainer  and  occasional 
jockey,  a  post  for  which  he  was  well  fitted, 
for  he  had  learnt  quite  enough  at  Newmarket 


86  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

to  know  how  to  make  such  middling  brutes  as 
the  Count  possessed  fit  to  go  ;  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  could  ride  a  good  one,  quite  like 
a  "  center 7>  (i.e.  Centaur),  as  he  himself 
would  say. 

However,  here  again  the  pace  was  too  good 
to  last.  One  fresh  spring  morning  the  Count 
was  found  by  his  valet  with  a  fearful  gash 
across  his  throat,  and  on  his  gorgeously 
appointed  dressing-table  was  a  bloody  razor  ; 
and  it  was  too  evident,  by  the  tracks  of  blood 
from  the  table  to  the  bed,  that  the  unfortu- 
nate man  had  coolly  undressed,  gone  to  the 
looking-glass,  cut  his  throat,  walked  to  his 
bed,  and  there  calmly  bled  to  death. 

Mr.  Twister  was  again  a  free  man. 

Having  saved  a  little  money,  he  could 
afford  to  wait  a  bit.  I  happened  to  see  his 
advertisement  in  the  Field,  and,  after  some 
correspondence,  closed  with  him  ;  and,  if  I 
were  not  rather  afraid  of  him,  should  say 
he  suited  me,  to  use  a  slang  expression, 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     87 

"down  to  the  ground.''  He  is  always 
"hairin'  his  French,"  as  he  calls  it,  and  is 
always  bringing  up  the  Count's  name  when 
I  venture  to  give  my  opinion  on  anything 
connected  with  his  department.  "  When  I 
trained  for  the  Count,"  he  always  begins— 
the  Count's  stud,  as  I  have  been  told,  having 
consisted  of  five  or  six  weeds,  that  would 
scarce  have  paid  for  their  hay  and  corn  in 
England. 

And  now  for  "  Becky  Sharp." 

"  Take  her  clothes  off,  Jim,"  says  Twister, 
as  we  enter  the  box,  to  the  attendant  helper. 

"Becky  Sharp,"  by  "  Swindler "  out  of  a 
hunting  mare,  is  a  long,  lathy,  dark  chestnut 
mare,  with  a  white  star  on  her  forehead,  and 
not  another  speck  about  her. 

"Pretty  fit,  I  think  you'll  say,  capt'in," 
says  Twister,  as,  leaning  against  the  wall 
in  an  easy  attitude,  he  scans  the  mare  very 
complacently. 

And   Twister  is  right,   she  does  look  fit. 


88  THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

Her  dark  coat  shines  like  satin  ;  and  as  she 
puts  her  ears  back,  and  lunges  out  gently 
with  one  of  her  hind  legs,  every  muscle 
stands  out  in  bold  relief;  and  I  think,  if 
even  the  bold  Dick  Turpin  were  here,  and 
could  set  eyes  on  her,  he  would  think  her 
worthy  of  carrying  him  in  a  ride  for  life 
or  death. 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.     89 


CHAPTER  II. 


"  NOT  quite  class  enough  to  win  the  i  Liver- 
pool," capt'in,  but  varry  near,  sir — varry 
near/'  says  Twister,  as  he  passes  his  hand 
caressingly  along  "Becky  Sharp's"  hard  and 
shining  neck.  "  'Owever,"  he  continues, 
"  she's  more  than  class  enough  to  win  this 
'ere  steeplechase,  and  'arf  a  dozen  sich  the 
same  day  ;  and  I  tell  Mister  John  that  if  he 
honly  keeps  'isself  quiet  on  her,  and  doesn't 
let  her  'ave  'er  'ead  until  three-quarter  of  a 
mile  from  'ome,  when  it  comes  to  racing, 
there's  not  one  of  the  others  will  be  able 
to  live  with  'er.  Lor'  bless  you!  Capt'in 
Moore,  she  can  go  just  as  fast  as  you 
can  clap  your  'ands  together.  You  must 
ride  her  to-morrow  yourself,  sir,  and  then 


90    THE  FAYEE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

you    can    judge    for    yourself    what    she's 
made  of." 

"  Certainly,"  Charlie  says,  "the  mare  looks 
uncommon  like  business  ;  and,  I  should  say, 
must  have  a  rare  chance  of  pulling  this  affair 
off,  though  I  have  seen  none  of  the  other 
intended  runners." 

"  I  'ave  though,''  says  Mr.  Twister,  "seen 
'em  hall;  and  though  all  the  'Hoipolloi?  as 
the  hancients  call  'em,  about  'ere  think 
'Capt'in  Cutway's  'oss  is  the  one  to  put  their 
pieces  on,'  the  honly  one — the  honly  one,  as 
I'm  afraid  on — is  "  La  Perichole,''  a  mare  of 
Mr.  Becher's — him  as  lives  at  Shenstone,  you 
know,  sir.  I've  seen  her  out  'unting,  with 
Mr.  Becher  on  her,  several  times,  but  I've 
never  seen  her  jump  anything  ;  for  Mr.  B., 
though  I'm  hinformed  he's  a  rare  good  judge 
of 'oss-flesh,  never  rides  any,  and  Joe  Black- 
bird, 'is  'ead  man,  is  one  of  the  most  mis- 
teerous  and  deepest  cards  ever  I  conversed 
with.  Nothing  to  be  got  out  of  him.  'Ow- 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.  91 

ever,  I  'ear,  on  very  good  authority,  that 
'Mr.  George,'  the  well-known  gentleman 
rider,  will  steer  the  mare.  If  this  is  so,  why, 
Mr.  John  will  have  to  look  to  hisself,  for  it  is 
quite  sevin  pounds  to  the  good  for  any  horse 
to  'ave  such  an  A  1  pilot  as  Mr.  George." 

"Yes,  by  jingo!"  says  Charlie,  "George 
is  the  boy  to  shove  'em  along." 

"I  hope,  for  your  sake,  he'll  break  his 
mount's  back,  or  his  own,  the  first  fence, 
Master  Johnnie." 

Hang  this  Mr.  George !  I  think  to  myself; 
what  business  have  such  swell  riders  to  come 
down  and  put  themselves  against  men  who, 
good  across  country  as  they  may  be,  yet  have 
never  ridden  a  race  in  their  lives?  I  only 
hope,  as  Charlie  says,  he  may  come  to  awful 
grief  the  very  first  fence. 

At  last  the  important  day  arrives ;  "Becky 
Sharp"  is  as  fine  as  a  star  under  Mr.  Twister's 
training ;  and,  as  for  myself,  I  never  felt  so 
fresh  in  my  life,  for  Charlie  has  made  me 


92  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

"  knock  off  my  'baccy,"  as  he  calls  it,  sent  me 
to  bed  early  every  night,  and  looked  on  at  my 
gallops  on  "Becky" every  day;  so,  altogether, 
after  all  the  combined  advice  and  encourage- 
ment of  him  and  Mr.  Twister,  I  feel  remark- 
ably confident  of  my  prowess. 

I  come  down  to  breakfast  on  the  important 
day,  which  is  to  "make"  or  to  "mar"  me, 
feeling  rather  seedy,  for  I  have  not  been 
blessed  with  too  much  sleep  in  the  course  of 
the  night.  My  mother  and  Charlie  have 
already  begun.  Notwithstanding  their  com- 
bined entreaties,  I  make  an  indifferent  feed  of 
it ;  and  I  envy  Charlie,  who  has  cleared  off 
no  end  of  devilled  kidneys,  and  is  now  going 
in  for  potted  char,  ham,  oatcake,  and  marma- 
lade, as  if  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  a 
week.  I  don't  feel  properly  wound  up  until 
I  have  taken  the  plunger's  advice,  and  drunk 
a  glass  of  curacoa  and  brandy — not  to  say 
two.  "Nothing  like  it,  old  man,"  says  Charlie, 
helping  himself  to  the  same  seductive  mixture. 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.  93 

"Adieu,"  to  my  mother,  and  then  off 
we  start  in  my  phaeton  for  the  scene 
of  action. 

The  day  is  very  bright  and  fresh,  and  there 
having  been  a  slight  frost  in  the  night,  the 
air  is  keen  and  exhilarating ;  indeed,  my 
spirits  rise  to  the  occasion,  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  ride  at  anything,  or  with  anybody — 
even  the  great  Mr.  George  himself.  Even 
the  horses  shake  their  heads,  and  step  along 
as  if  they  enjoyed  the  fun. 

"  Mornin',  sir ;  mornin',  capt'in."  says  a 
jolly  voice,  the  owner  of  which,  cantering 
along  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the  road,  has 
overtaken  us.  It  is  Dick  Whelby,  j oiliest  and 
most  sporting  of  farmers.  "  Riding  over  to 
see  Mister  John  win,  capt'in ?  I  see  "Becky " 
pass  our  house  this  morning,  and  precious 
well  she  looked,  too.  My  missis  runned  out, 
and  had  a  look  too  ;  she'll  be  quite  off  her 
head,  Mister  John,  if  you  win  the  cup,  and 
on  tittups."  Dick,  his  cheery  red  face 


94     THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

beaming  with  broad  grins  and  good  humour 
generally. 

Here's  Doctor  Mackintosh  bowling  along 
in  his  half- gig,  half- dogcart,  accompanied,  as 
usual,  by  his  man,  in  the  seediest  of  hats  and 
coats.  The  worthy  doctor  generally  manages, 
I  notice,  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  his  numer- 
ous patients  when  there  is  anything  in  the 
way  of  sport  going  forward.  Next  we  over- 
take a  dingy-looking  brougham,  drawn  along 
by  a  Koinan-nosed,  flea-bitten  old  grey — Mrs. 
Kamrnaquin's,  surely  ?  Sure  enough  it  is  ; 
and  that  old  cat,  Mother  Kammaquin  herself, 
is  inside,  for  she  pops  her  wizen  old  head  out 
of  the  window  as  we  pass,  and,  as  she  sees 
me,  nods  like  a  Chinese  mandarin.  I  see  her 
pretty,  timid  little  daughter  along  with  her. 
Her  artful  old  mother  makes  a  dead  set  at  me 
always  ;  for  what  a  catch  it  would  be  for 
darling  Lucy,  she  no  doubt  thinks  to  herself. 

They  do  say  she  bullies  the  said  Lucy 
awfully.  She  would  like  to  pull  up  now  and 


THE  FAYEE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.  95 

talk,  if  I  gave  her  tlie  chance,  which  I  don't 
-"  not  if  I  know  it." 

Now  we  pass  Shenstone  Priory,  Mr. 
Becher's  place,  and,  as  I  live,  the  owner  of 
"La  Perichole7'  is  just  turning  out  of  his 
lodge  gates  as  we  pass  by.  He  waves  his 
whip  to  me  ;  and  I  see  a  sporting-looking 
man  with  him  in  his  well-appointed  dogcart. 
Charlie  spots  him  directly. 

"By  Jove!  that's  the  great  Mr.  George," 
says  he  ;  "  that's  the  fellow  you'll  have  to 
keep  your  eye  on  to  day,  old  boy." 

Here  we  are  at  Bedbury.  That  stupidest 
of  towns  is  all  alive  O !  Carriages,  gigs, 
dogcarts,  and  nondescript  vehicles  of  all  sorts 
crowd  the  principal  street.  Men  on  horses, 
men  on  foot,  card  sellers  and  sharpers,  and 
every  sort  of  blackguard,  all  going  to  the 
same  destination.  Another  mile  and  we 
reach  the  course. 

Jolt,  jostle,  jig-jog  we  go  over  the  uneven 
ground,  and  at  last  take  up  our  position  by  the 


96     THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS- 

ropes.  A  dozen  cads  descend  upon  us  to  help 
take  the  horses  out,  and  turn  the  carriage  round. 

As  I  look  about  me,  I  see  that  close  by  is 
General  Dash  wood's  carriage,  containing  the 
old  soldier  himself,  his  fair  daughter,  and  her 
faithful  sheep-dog.  They  are  placed  im- 
mediately opposite  the  artificial  water-jump, 
so  they  ought  to  see  plenty  of  fun. 

Just  at  this  moment  up  comes  Twister,  big 
with  importance.  "  Our  mare's  over  there," 
says  he,  pointing  to  the  other  end  of  the 
field,  "and  I've  sent  Tom  with  your  dress- 
ing things  to  the  room  in  the  stand." 

"All  right,"  I  reply,  "I'll  join  you 
directly  ; "  and  off  I  go  to  pay  my  respects 
to  the  Dash  woods'  carriage.  I  am  very 
graciously  received  there,  and  Blanche  blows 
me  up  sky-high  for  never  having  been  near 
her  since  the  Ball. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  not  to  speak  to  you  all 
day,  sir,"  says  that  lively  young  person. 
"But,  Johnnie,  how  horrid,  and  large,  and 


THE  PAYEE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   97 

nasty  this  brook  looks ! — it  looks  like  a  lot  of 
mud  and  straw  and  water,  all  mashed  up 
together.  And  I  have  seen  '  Becky/  and  how 
nice  and  pretty  she  looks  ;  and  Johnnie,  let 
me  tell  you,  sir,  I've  backed  you  for  no  end 
of  gloves,  so  you  really  must  win  ;  and  look 
what  I've  brought  you  to  pin  in  your  jacket 
— a  little,  tiny  bunch  of  purple  and  white 
violets.  Isn't  it  a  pretty  attention  on  my 
part? — it's  more  than  you  deserve,  sir.  Will 
you  wear  them,  Johnnie?" 

"  Wear  them,  Blanche !  "  I  exclaim. 
"  Oh,  how  kind  of  you ! ''  I  forgive  her 
everything  from  that  moment,  and  am  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  delight.  I  don't  care  a 
button  for  anyone  now.  "  But  time  flies.  I 
must  be  off;  so,  good-bye,  for  the  present, 
Blanche." 

"  Luncheon  will  be  ready  for  you  after  the 
big  race,  remember,"  says  the  general.  And 
as  I  turn  away,  I  really  think  Blanche  looks 
a  little  pale  and  anxious. 


98   THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

Now  for  "Becky."  I  find  her  walking  about 
looking  very  smart  in  her  brand-new  purple 
and  white  clothing  (nay  colours),  surrounded 
by  a  host  of  my  farmer  friends,  headed  by 
old  Ben  Jovey,  the  farmer  who  bred  her  and 
sold  her  to  me.  Old  Ben  is  very  red  in  the 
face,  and,  I  think,  has  already  had  several 
glasses  of  brandy  and  "  warrer,"  as  he  calls 
it.  "I've  got  my  fi'-pun'  note  on,  Master 
John,"  says  he ;  "I  hope  you'll  pull  it  off,  sir. 
The  mare  looks  uncommon  ;  that  she  do." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Jovey,  if  I  did'nt  know  'ow  to 
turn  out  an  'oss  for  sech  a  game  as  this,  I  did 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,"  remarks  Mr. 
Twister,  eyeing  old  Ben  with  much  contempt. 

"Becky  Sharp"  herself  takes  things  with 
the  greatest  indifference,  staring  about  her 
with  that  wild  eye  of  hers,  as  if  she  had  been 
used  to  the  game  all  her  life. 

But,  hark !  Tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle :  there's 
the  bell  for  the  first  race. 

"  Come   on,"  says   Charlie,   collaring   my 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   99 

arm  ;  and  off  we  go  to  the  stand,  to  see 
what's  going  on.  My  own  affair  is  the  third 
on  the  card,  so  there  is  heaps  of  time  to  look 
about  one. 

A  "selling  handicap  steeplechase"  this 
is,  of  40  sovs.,  only  three  runners,  and  here 
they  come— and,  "my  eye,"  precious  groggy- 
looking  runners  they  are.  Mr.  Abram's,  "  The 
Kinchin,"  is  favourite — a  pretty  hot  one 
seemingly,  but,  as  far  as  looks  go,  there's  not 
much  to  choose  between  the  three.  Tinkle 
goes  the  bell ;  they  are  off  the  first  attempt, 
the  redoubtable  "  Kinchin"  shuffling  along  the 
last  of  the  trio.  They  only  go  once  round, 
so  have  only  two  miles  to  do  ;  and  now  they 
come  to  the  water  jump.  "Hoosh!"  over 
they  go,  altogether.  The  "Kinchin"  gives  a 
decided  peck  on  landing,  though,  which  his 
blackguard-looking  jockey  reminds  him  of  by 
giving  him  a  savage  wrench  of  his  mouth, 
and  a  cut  over  his  head  with  his  whip.  Two 
more  fences  well  over,  and  then  "  The 


100  THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

Kinchin"  suddenly  drops  back.  "And  yet 
he  don't  look  beat  either,"  says  Charlie,  who 
has  his  glasses  up. 

"  Why,  what  the  blank's  he  a-doin'  on?" 
shouts  a  burly  ruffian  at  my  elbow.  "  There's 
that  blanky  feller  a-pullin'  of  the  blanky 
'orse  a' ready ;  and  there,  I've  took  ten  blanky 
suv'rins  to  height  about  'im;"  and,  sure 
enough,  his  money  looks  anything  but  safe, 
for  a  regular  roar  goes  up  from  the  stand  as 
the  three  horses  come  up  to  the  final  hurdle. 
It  is  plainly  a  bondjide  case  of  Captain  Arm- 
strong, for  it  is  very  evident  "The  Kinchin," 
bad  as  he  is,  is  far  the  best  of  the  lot,  and 
could  win  anyhow,  if  his  jockey  chose.  But 
Mr.  Sloper's  "Light  of  Other  Days"  wins  in  a 
canter,  cooked  as  he  is ;  whilst  the  villainous- 
looking  rider  of  "The  Kinchin"  makes  a  show 
of  a  finish  with  the  other  brute,  amidst  a 
regular  howl  from  his  infuriated  backers. 
He  makes  a  straight  run  of  it  into  the  in- 
closed place,  knowing  what  he  may  expect  if 


THE  PAYEE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   101 

he  is  caught,  for  the  enraged  populace  would 
murder  him,  then  and  there,  if  they  could. 

However,  under  the  circumstances,  he 
knows  exactly  what  to  do,  and  he  and  the 
owner  of  "The  Kinchin" —a  Jew  publican, 
hailing  from  the  Haymarket — will  take  their 
departure  quietly,  whilst  the  next  race  is 
going  on. 

"  Come  on,  old  chap,  and  get  your  togs 
on,"  says  Charlie,  "for  the  next  race,  they 
say  will  be  a  '  walk  over/  and  there  won't 
be  much  time  afterwards." 

So  off  I  go  ;  and,  having  duly  dressed  and 
weighed,  don  my  great  coat,  and  wait  for  the 
important  event  of  the  day. 


102   THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 


CHAPTER  III. 


"  Who's  that  young  chap?"  I  overhear  a 
horsey-looking  customer,  in  a  heavy  white 
great  coat  and  a  blue  bird's-eye  tie  (the  latter 
article  showing  off  the  brilliant  crimson 
colour  of  his  countenance  to  much  advantage), 
ask  his  friend.  "  I  niver  see  'im  afore  to  my 
knowledge.  Can  he  ride  any  ?  " 

I  try  to  look  as  if  it  was  anything  but  my 
first  appearance  in  silk ;  but  I  fear  the 
attempt  is  rather  a  failure.  "  Hang  it ;  I 
wish  I  hadn't  smoked  those  two  cigars  last 
night,"  I  think  to  myself.  I  wonder  if 
Charlie  has  got  a  flask  in  his  pocket ;  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  like  some  jumping  powder. 
Tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle,  goes  the  bell  again 
close  by.  It  is  the  second  race ;  and  Charlie 


THE  FATRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   103 

was  right  when  he  prognosticated  a  walk 
over.  The  dreaded  Mr.  George  rides  him, 
too.  Here  he  comes,  and  very  business-like 
that  gentleman  looks — a  short  stumpy  man, 
with  reddish  hair  and  a  pair  of  twinkling 
eyes  that  seem  to  take  in  everything  in  one 
comprehensive  glance.  Need  I  say  he  sports 
a  most  elaborate  white  tie,  wears  undeniable 
boots  and  breeches,  and  is  altogether  the 
perfect  model  of  a  gentleman  rider. 

He  just  trots  his  horse  gently  down  the 
course  to  beyond  the  gorse-topped  hurdles, 
and  then,  turning  sharp  round,  sets  him 
going,  and  jumps  them  in  his  stride,  canter- 
ing home  again,  rising  in  his  stirrups  and 
patting  his  horse's  neck,  in  all  the  pride  of 
masterly  horsemanship.  I  think  there  is  no 
finer  sight  in  this  world  than  to  see  a  real 
good  horse  striding  along  in  his  canter,  with 
a  horseman  on  his  back,  the  pair  seeming 
made  for  each  other.  One  can  almost  fancy 
the  quadruped  saying,  as  he  goes  sweeping 


104     THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

gracefully  by,  "I  am  going  this  pace  merely 
for  my  own  amusement,  gentlemen.  I  like  it. 
By-and-bye  you  shall  see  how  I  really  can  go 
when  I  mean  business."  But  to  return  to  our 
story :  Mr.  George  having  finished  his  walk 
over,  the  fun  of  the  fair  is  about  to  commence. 
"Halloo,  Temple!"  says  a  voice  behind 
me.  Turning  round,  I  behold  the  great  Cut- 
way.  He,  like  myself,  is  ready  dressed  for 
the  fray,  his  bright  jacket  being  concealed 
beneath  a  huge  rough  coat,  which  reaches 
down  to  his  heels.  "  How  do  you  feel,  my 
boy  ?  They  are  making  my  nag  a  favourite 
over  yonder,  they  tell  me,"  says  he,  pointing, 
as  he  speaks,  to  Tattersall's  ring.  "  You 
know  your  mare's  a  good  'un,  Temple,"  he 
goes  on  ;  "  but  not  quite  enough  of  her,  I 
don't  think)  for  this  journey.  I've  the 
measure  of  all  the  others,  more  or  less,  and 
I  don't  think,  I  don't  really  think,  between 
you  and  me  and  the  post,  that  it  is  six  to  four 
against  my  horse." 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   105 

I  notice  Charlie,  who  has  come,  and  has 
been  listening  to  all  this,  prick  up  his  ears, 
and  when  Cutway  has  had  his  say,  begins 
very  quietly,  "I  want  to  back  my  cousin's 
mare  for  a  trifle,  old  fellow.  Do  you  feel 
inclined  to  lay  me  the  odds?" 

"  Yes,  I  will,  old  man,"  rejoins  the  ex- 
plunger,  pulling  out  an  elaborate  betting- 
book,  "with  pleasure.  I  don't  mind  laying 
you  eight  ponies,  or  fifties,  which  ever  you 
fancy." 

"  What  say  you  to  hundreds  ? "  says 
Charlie. 

"  Very  well,  I'm  equally  agreeable,"  he 
replies,  evidently  thinking  it  real  good  busi- 
ness. "Eight  hundred  to  a  hundred,"  he 
mutters,  as  he  puts  it  down.  "  Now,  Temple, 
don't  you  want  to  back  your  mount?"  he 
goes  on,  turning  to  me.  "  I'll  lay  you  the 
same  odds  to  fifty,  if  you  like.'' 

I  feel  rather  "  cock-a-hoop  "  for  a  moment 
at  seeing  such  a  clever  fellow  as  Charlie 


106  THE  FAYEE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

backing  me  ;  so  I  close  with  his  offer,  and 
immediately  afterwards  think  what  an  ass  I 
am,  as  Cutway  shuts  his  book  up  with  a  slap 
of  satisfaction,  as  if  the  money  was  already 
in  his  pocket.  He  then  swaggers  off,  to  put 
another  century  on  his  own  horse,  as  he  says. 

"By  Jove!  Johnnie,"  says  Charlie,  looking 
after  him,  "  that  fellow  will  look  blue  before 
the  day's  over,  you  see  if  he  doesn't.  Halloo !" 
he  exclaims,  "  they  are  putting  the  numbers 
up  ; "  and,  sure  enough,  up  they  go,  with  a 
slap,  to  the  top  of  the  telegraph-board. 

Nine  runners  instead  of  the  expected 
baker's  dozen.  All  the  better  for  me,  I  think 
to  myself.  Let  us  see  who  they  are. 

1.  Mr.    Becher's    "La    Perichole"    (scarlet    and    white 

chevrons),     Mr.  George. 

2.  Captain  Cutway's  "Lord   Lovel"  (white,  yellow  belt 

and  cap).     Owner. 

3.  Mr.  Martin's  "Sir  Harry"  (rose).     Owner. 

4.  Captain  Healey's  "Lady  Jane"  (brown  and  blue  cap). 

Captain  Hounslow. 

5.  Mr.  Temple's  "Becky  Sharp"  (purple,  white  belt  and 

cap).     Owner. 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   107 

Unhappy  thought!  No.  5  am  I?  Hope  I 
shan't  be  No.  5  at  the  finish. 

6.  Mr.  Greene's  "The  Farmer"  (mauve,  black  cap).   Owner. 

7.  Mr.  de  Boote's  "  Sir  Eoger  de  Coverley"  (blue).     Owner. 

8.  Captain  Scroggin's  "Betsy  Baker"  (orange,  blue  cap). 

Captain  Jones. 

9.  Mr.  Muffyn's  "Jam  Tart"  (green,  black  belt  and  cap). 

Owner. 

"Now  then,  let's  be  off,  and  get  to  the 
mare,"  says  Charlie,  taking  my  arm.  "  There's 
George  going  to  get  up  already."  We  hurry 
off  to  find  "Becky." 

"  There  she  is,  sir,"  says  an  excited  farmer, 
evidently  one  of  my  backers,  pointing  to  a 
small  crowd  not  fifty  yards  off  on  the  course. 
Twister  has  already  adjusted  the  girths,  and 
is  giving  "  Becky  "  the  final  polish  as  we  come 
up,  amidst  a  buzz  of  admiration  from  a 
numerous  bevy  of  acquaintances. 

"  Now  then,  Johnnie,  time's  up.  Off  with 
your  wrap-rascal,"  exclaims  Charlie.  "By 
jingo!  though,"  he  adds,  with  a  grin^  "we 
must  pin  that  'ere  bunch  of  violets  in  your 


108  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

jacket  first ;  it  would  never  do  to  go  without 
them,  eh?"  He  accordingly  suits  the  action 
to  the  word,  and  pins  them  in  for  me. 

"  I  wonder  what  gal  guv'  Jim  that  booky  ?  " 
remarks  an  observant  cad. 

Off  comes  my  great  coat.  Another  second, 
and  I  am  in  the  saddle. 

"By  Jove!"  says  Charlie  patting  the 
mare's  neck  as  we  move  off,  "the  pair  of  you 
look  uncommon.  I  shall  be  off,  and  put  a  bit 
more  on,  on  my  own  account.  Twister,  mind 
and  see  him  safe  to  the  start,  will  you  ?  Bon 
voyage,  Johnnie,"  says  he,  shaking  me  by 
the  hand  ;  and  off  he  goes  into  the  ring. 

We  walk  quietly  pass  the  stand,  Twister 
marching  along  at  "  Becky's  "  head,  big  with 
importance.  What  a  row  the  "  Genii  of  the 
Ring  "  are  making  ! 

"  'Ere's  two  to  one  on  the  field  for  the  'unt 
cup,"  shouts  one,  at  the  top  of  his  very 
powerful  voice. 

"  Four  to  one  bar  one,"  bellows  another. 


. 
THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS-   109 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  bet  on  the  field  for 
this  race,"  shouts  a  good-looking  man,  with 
a  pair  of  wild-looking  eyes  and  a  pointed 
moustache,  flourishing  his  betting-book  as  he 
speaks.  This  is  Mr.  Charlie  Nutt,  the  well- 
known  leviathan  bookmaker. 

Now  a  quiet  old  country  gentleman  is  con- 
siderably astonished  by  being  pulled  short  up 
by  a  dusty -faced,  dirty -fingered  betting  man, 
with  the  stentorian  inquiry  of,  "  Wot  do  you 
want  to  do  now?"  On  due  consideration 
the  old  gentleman  is  of  opinion  that  the 
sooner  he  is  safe  in  his  own  carriage  the 
better,  and  takes  himself  off  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"  Hi,  hi,  hi, !  "  «  Becky  "  pricks  her  ears. 
"  Make  way  there  !  " 

It  is  "  Mr.  George,'7  taking  his  preliminary 
canter,  "La  Perichole"  going  like  a  steam- 
engine.  Then  follows  a  shout  of  laughter 
from  the  crowd.  The  cause  of  it  is  Mr. 
Greene's  horse,  "  The  Farmer,"  who  declines 


110     THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

to  jump  the  hurdles  at  any  price.  He  is 
amusing  himself  by  shaking  his  head  and 
turning  round  and  round  like  a  teetotum, 
Mr.  Greene  the  while  looking  most  supremely 
unhappy. 

"  He  wants  to  go  'ome  to  the  ploo',"  shouts 
a  rustic  Joe  Miller,  amidst  a  roar  of  laughter 
from  the  company. 

Just  then  a  farmer  comes  up,  armed  with 
a  hunting-whip,  and  giving  the  brute  a  tre- 
mendous cut  behind,  sends  him  over  the 
hurdle  as  if  he  was  shot,  and  away  the  other 
side,  Mr.  Greene  having  his  reins  all  loose, 
and  one  foot  out  of  his  stirrup. 

That  performance  over,  Twister  takes  us 
down  to  about  fifty  yards  from  the  hurdles, 
and  turning  round,  away  we  go.  No  refuse 
about  "  Becky  ; "  she  jumps  them  like  a  cat, 
and  we  do  our  canter  in  fine  style. 

"  That's  the  winner,  for  a  crown,"  says  a 
white-coated  cattle-drover  to  his  pal  as  we 
go  by.  I  only  hope  he  may  be  right.  As  we 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   Ill 

go  by  the  Dash  woods'  carriage,  I  just  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Blanche,  sitting  on  the  box  seat. 
She  waves  her  handkerchief  to  me.  I  feel 
duly  encouraged,  and,  by  the  time  I  pull  up 
and  join  the  other  horses,  am  ready  for  any 
emergency. 

"Now,  sir,  you're  all  behindhand,''  says 
the  starter,  as  I  pull  up.  "  Please  get  in  a 
line,  gentlemen,  and  don't  be  in  a  hurry ; 
you  can't  go  until  I  drop  my  flag,  you  know." 

I  am  on  the  outside,  next  to  Mr.  George, 
and  we  are  in  a  beautiful  line,  like  a  squadron 
of  cavalry.  Twister,  who  has  galloped  up 
on  my  hack,  has  barely  time  to  whisper  a  last 
word  of  advice  in  my  ear,  when  down  goes 
the  flag,  and  we  are  off. 

"  Becky  "  gives  my  arms  a  good  wrench  at 
starting,  but  soon  settles  down  quietly  to  her 
work.  George  makes  the  running,  at  a  great 
pace,  being  several  lengths  in  front  of  the 
rest  of  us  We  all  get  well  over  the  first 
fence  without  a  mistake,  and  away  over  the 


112   THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

large  pasture  beyond.  The  next  is  a  teazer, 
rather — a  wide  ditch  and  bank  with  a  rail  on 
the  top  and  a  ditch  the  other  side,  and  plough 
to  land  in. 

"  Woh,  you  brute!  "  says  a  voice  close  to 
me.  It  is  Mr.  Greene  again,  whose  lively 
horse,  "  The  Farmer,"  is  galloping  with  his 
great  head  in  the  air,  as  if  he  was  star- 
gazing. I  pull  "  Becky ' '  back  a  little,  and  it  is 
lucky  I  did,  for  "  The  Farmer,"  not  rising  an 
inch,  takes  the  rail  with  his  knees,  and  turns 
a  complete  somersault,  rolling  up  Mr.  Greene 
in  a  very  uncomfortable  way  on  the  other 
side. 

The  rest  of  us  get  well  over,  Mr.  George 
taking  a  pull  at  his  horse  over  the  plough, 
and  looking  all  the  while  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  eyes,  as  if  he  knew  to  an  ounce  how  we 
were  all  going.  The  next  four  fences  are  all 
very  easy,  and  we  jump  them  without  a  mis- 
take. Now  we  cross  a  wheat  field,  and  over 
a  small  fence  on  to  the  racecourse,  and  then 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   113 

comes  the  water-jump.  It's  a  case  of  harden- 
ing hearts  now  in  earnest.  Cutway  suddenly 
shoots  to  the  front,  a  deuce  of  a  pace,  and 
soon  is  quite  ten  lengths  in  front  of  us.  He 
is  close  to  the  jump  now,  and  is  just  pulling 
Ids  horse  together  for  the  effort  when,  "  Yow, 
yow,  yow!"  out  rushes  an  excited  dog  from 
the  crowd,  snapping  at  his  horse's  legs.  "Lord 
Lovel'7  stops  as  if  he  were  shot,  nearly  sending 
Cutway  over  his  head.  I  am  well  out  of  his 
way,  luckily.  "  Come  along,  'Becky,'  old  girl !" 
I  holloa,  driving  her  at  the  brook.  She  pricks 
up  her  ears,  and  over  we  go,  with  lots  to 
spare,  amidst  a  shout  from  the  crowd. 
George  jumps  it  alongside  of  me.  Only  five 
of  us  in  the  hunt  now,  for,  looking  back,  I 
see  that  besides  Cutway 's  horse,  "  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley"  and  "Betsy  Baker"  have  both 
refused. 

What's  the  betting  now,  I  wonder? 
Scarcely  anything  of  importance  to  jump, 
and  "Becky "going  as  strong  as  a  lion.  Four 


114   THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

more  fences  well  over,  Mr.  George  and  I  both 
together,  five  lengths  in  front  of  our  field. 
Now  for  some  plough  again,  and  a  stiffish 
fence  out  of  it,  with  a  ditch  and  drop  the 
other  side.  De  Muffyns,  passing  us,  sends  his 
horse  at  it  fifty  miles  an  hour;  but  poor  "Jam 
Tart/'  being  blown,  comes  down  a  burster, 
breaking  his  own  neck  and  considerably 
damaging  his  rider.  I  manage  to  pull  "  Becky" 
on  one  side  in  time,  and  only  just.  As  it  is, 
we  land  badly,  and  are  very  nearly  down. 
Mr.  George  is  still  in  front,  and  I  am  close  to 
his  heels;  and — can  it  be?  "LaPerichole"  looks 
as  if  she  had  had  enough  of  it.  No  more 
plough  now,  thank  goodness.  Crash  we  go 
through  a  small  fence  into  a  plantation,  which 
we  cross  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  over  a 
post  and  rail,  and  a  drop  the  other  side.  George 
is  obliged  to  wake  his  mare  up,  and  gets  over 
very  slovenly.  u  Lady  Jane' '  and  "  Sir  Harry ' ' 
cannon  in  the  air,  and  roll  over  just  behind 
us.  Now  for  the  tug  of  war!  Only  three 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.      115 

more  fences.     I  let  "Becky"  out  a  bit;  and, 
by   Jove!    George   is   obliged  to   ride    "La 
Perichole"  to  keep  near  me.    She  answers  the 
call  garnely?  and  is  only  just  behind  at  the  final 
hurdle.  "Becky"  has  got  lots  of  go  in  her,  and 
jumps  it  quite  clean;  not  so  "La  Perichole," 
who  smashes  it  like  paper,  and  nearly  comes 
down.     "  She's  beat !  She's  beat!  "  roars  an 
excited  farmer.     Whack,  crack,  smack !  with 
a  running  accompaniment   with   the   spurs. 
Mr.  George  is  making  his  last  effort.      The 
good  mare  answers  as  well  as  she  can ;  but 
it's  no  go.     I  shake  "  Becky  Sharp  "  up,  and 
leave  her,  as  BelVs  Life  afterwards  expressed 
it,  just  as  if  she  was  standing  still.     I  look 
back,  and  see  that  George  has  given  up  all 
hopes  of  catching  us,  and  has  eased  his  mare. 
Another  second  or  two,  and  I  canter  past  the 
judge's  box,  easiest  of  winners,  a  good  fifteen 
lengths  in  front  of  "  La  Perichole." 

Heavens !  what  a  row  the  ring  make  as  I 
pull  up!  and  well  they  may,  for  they  have 


116   THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

what  is  elegantly  called  "  Skinned  the  Lamb ! " 
that  is  to  say,  scarcely  one  of  them  has  laid 
a  farthing  against  "  Becky,"  whilst  a  heap  of 
money  had  gone  on  "La  Perichole"  and 
"Lord  Lovel." 

"  Well  done,  sir ! 1J  says  Twister,  meeting 
me  as  I  walk  back  to  weigh.  He  is  quite 
pale  with  excitement.  "  I  thought  you'd  do 
it,  old  lady,"  he  goes  on,  addressing  "  Becky," 
and  patting  her  neck  ;  "  but  I  certainly  never 
did  think  it  would  be  such  an  'oiler  perform- 
ance as  this." 

"  Hooray !  Three  cheers  for  the  young- 
squire!"  shouts  out  old  purple-faced  Jovey, 
former  proprietor  of  "Becky,"  nearly  wring- 
ing my  hand  off  at  the  same  time. 

"  Hooray ! "  echo  a  crowd  of  admiring 
countrymen. 

"Well  rode,  Johnnie!  "  says  Charlie,  who 
has  rushed  out  to  meet  me.  "  Page  himself 
couldn' t  have  ridden  better.  Why,  the  mare' s 
not  beat  at  all,"  he  continues;  "but  'La 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS-   117 

Perichole's  '  had  her  gruel,  though.  Look  at 
her  sides."  And  as  she  comes  up  close  to 
me,  I  see  the  great  crimson  marks  where  the 
persuaders  have  been  applied,  whilst  her 
drooping  head  and  heaving  frame  show  how 
done  she  is.  "  Becky,"  on  the  contrary,  though 
she  has  had  quite  enough,  is  comparatively 
fresh,  and  has  not  a  mark  about  her. 

I  look  down  at  Blanche's  violets,  and  they, 
too,  are  all  right,  and  as  fresh  as  when  they 
were  given  me.  Charlie  and  Twister  escort 
me  to  the  enclosure  in  triumph  ;  and,  having 
jumped  off,  and  taken  my  saddle  to  the 
weighing-room,  there  soon  comes  forth  to  the 
expectant  ears  of  my  backers  the  welcome 
sound,  "  All  right!" 

Changing  my  things  as  quickly  as  I  can,  I 
walk  off  to  lunch  with  the  Dash  woods,  having 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  lots  of  congratulating 
friends  on  the  way,  consequently  I  am  some 
time  getting  there. 

"  Here    the  '  conquering    hero  '    comes  !  " 


118  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

exclaims  Blanche,  clapping  her  hands,  as  I 
walk  up.  "  We're  all  so  pleased  you've  won, 
Johnnie — aren't  we,  papa?" 

"  Well  done,  boy,  well  done ! "  says  the 
jolly  old  general,  shaking  me  heartily  by  the 
hand.  "  Never  saw  a  thing  better  done  in  my 
life.  You  ought  to  be  in  the  cavalry.  As 
for  my  little  Blanchey,  there,  you've  quite 
turned  her  head  with  your  horsemanship,  eh  ? 
Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Blanche  blushes,  and  good  old  Miss 
Budder,  her  amiable  sheepdog,  looks  at  me 
with  a  sly  twinkle  of  her  eye  that  very  much 
encourages  me  in  my  hopes  for  the  future. 

"  Now,  papa,"  says  Blanche,  "  I  am  certain 
Johnnie  must  be  nearly  famished,  and  I  am 
sure  I  am.  Johnnie,  sit  next  papa ;  and 
Captain  Moore,  I  advise  you  to  sit  on  the 
box." 

The  luncheon  is  speedily  unpacked,  and 
galantine,  pigeon-pie,  chicken,  and  tongue 
are  soon  being  heavily  laid  siege  to.  I  never 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   119 

sat  down  to  a  luncheon  with  such  an  appetite 
in  my  life,  and  certainly  never  enjoyed  that 
cheerful  meal  so  much,  for  I  felt  I  had  really 
earned  it  well. 

"  Yes,  I'll  have  one  more  glass  of  cham- 
pagne, Johnnie,"  says  the  "  Fayre  One,"  in 
reply  to  my  request,  "if  it's  only  to  drink 
dear  'Becky  Sharp's'  health.  When  I  saw 
you  galloping  up  to  this  horrid,  muddy  jump, 
oh !  I  was  so  frightened ;  I  thought  you 
must  break  your  neck  ;  and  do  you  know, 
sir,  I  saw  my  violets  pinned  in  your  jacket 
quite  plainly  when  you  came  over,  and  I 
really  believe  it  was  wearing  them  made  you 
jump  so  prettily." 

Dear  Blanche!  I  should  like  to  drop  my 
plate,  and  hug  her  on  the  spot. 

"And  that  horrid  Captain  Cutway,  John- 
nie," she  continues;  "oh!  how  I  laughed 
when  his  stupid  horse  refused.  He  got  in 
such  a  rage,  and  tried  to  jump  the  brook 
standing,  and  they  both  tumbled  head  over 


120  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

heels  into  the  rnuddy  water.  You  should 
have  heard  the  people  all  laughing  at  him." 

I  really  felt  so  happy  when  Blanche  told 
me  all  this,  that  I  quite  pitied  Cutway. 

"  Blanchey,  are  you  ready  to  go  home,  my 
dear?"  says  the  general.  "If  you  are,  we'll 
have  the  horses  put  to." 

Blanche  agrees,  and  tells  me  to  be  sure  and 
be  early  at  the  ball.  She  also  tells  me  that 
she  won't  give  a  dance  away  until  she  sees 
me.  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life  ;  every- 
thing is  couleur  de  rose. 

"  Good-bye,  Blanche,  and  au  revoir.  Good- 
bye, general ;"  and,  lighting  a  cigar,  I  walk 
off  in  search  of  Charlie.  I  soon  succeed  in 
finding  him,  and  following  the  Dashwoods' 
example,  we  get  our  horses  put  to  and  are 
soon  jolting  away  from  the  course,  bound 
homewards. 

"Well,  Johnnie,"  says  the  plunger,  as  we 
trot  along,  "  we  haven't  had  a  bad  day  of  it 
altogether,  have  we?  I  landed  nearly  nine 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   121 

hundred  on  your  race,  and  a  hundred  on  the 
next,  when  you  were  discoursing  your  ladye 
love.  Cutway  lost  the  best  part  of  fifteen 
hundred,  laying  against  you  and  backing 
himself.  I  wish  you  had  seen  him  when  he 
got  out  of  the  brook.  You  never  saw  a  man 
in  such  a  beastly  mess  in  your  life,  and  as 
savage  as  a  bear.  One  of  a  lot  of  cads,  who 
were  chaffing  him,  caught  it,  for  Cutway 
rushed  at  him,  and  gave  him  such  a  facer  as 
he  never  had  in  his  life  before,  and  another 
chap  such  a  cut  over  the  face  with  his  whip 
as  didn't  improve  his  beauty,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  watched  the  '  Fayre  Blanche/  too,  when  he 
came  down,  and  she  laughed  immoderately. 
His  chance  is  out  there,  depend  upon  it." 

We  reach  home  just  as  it  is  getting  dark, 
much  to  the  delight  of  my  mother,  who  had 
fully  expected  that  a  broken  neck  would  be 
the  result  of  my  steeplechase.  Charlie  and 
I  accept  her  cup  of  tea,  and  while  away  the 
time  by  taking  forty  winks  apiece  until  the 


122  THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

gong  sounds,  telling  us  to  dress  for  dinner. 
How  I  pitch  into  it  when  it  comes !  I  have 
been  living  very  abstemiously  lately  to  keep 
myself  in  proper  trim  for  the  race,  so  I  make 
up  for  it  now  by  taking  a  proper  allowance 
of  every  thing  both  eatable  and  drinkable. 
After  dinner,  when  my  mother  has  retired 
upstairs,  old  Binns  brings  in  a  bottle  of  my 
late  father's  very  best  claret,  warmed  to  per- 
fection ;  and  as  it  disappears  under  our 
combined  attack,  I  begin  to  think  to  myself 
that  if  I  don't  win  Blanche  Dashwood  to- 
night, I  never  shall.  Charlie  buzzes  the  bottle 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  and  I  ring  the  bell 
for  another.  Binns  appears  as  if  by  magic. 

"I  thought  you'd  want  another  bottle, 
Master  John,"  says  he,  "  so  I  had  one  all 
ready  for  you ;  and  I  will  bring  in  some 
devilled  biscuits  directly,  sir." 

"Binns  is  a  very  sensible  fellow,"  remarks 
Charlie,  helping  himself  to  a  bumper. 

Apropos  of  this  claret,  I  remember  once, 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   123 

when  I  was  a  small  boy,  coming  in  to  dessert 
one  night,  and  there  was  a  cousin  of  mine, 
Frank  Leicester  of  the  Rifle  Brigade,  staying 
in  the  house,  one  of  the  coolest  fishes  that 
ever  lived. 

Well,  my  father  and   he  were  sitting   by 

the  fire,  over  their  wine,  and  my  parent  who 

was  particular  to  the  last  degree  about  his 

drinks,  and  also  about  the  temperature  of  his 

claret  when  put  on  the  table,  asked  Frank 

how  he  liked  that  wine.     Master  Frank  took 

up  his  glass,  honoured  it  with  a  stare   and  a 

gulp,  and  a  smack  of  his  lips,  and  then  said, 

in  his  drawling  way,  "  Not  bad  clar't ;  doosid 

good  indeed,  but  wants  warming,  don't  it?" 

My  father  jumped  up,  and  gave  such  a  pull 

at  the  bell  as  frightened  old  Binns  out  of  his 

life.     He  said  afterwards  he  really   thought 

my  father  was  in  a  fit.     "Here !"  shouted  my 

father,  purple  with  indignation,  "here!  take 

this   claret   out,  and,  damme,  boil  rt!     D'ye 

hear  me?     Soil  it  for  Captain  Leicester !  " 


124      THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

Binns  stared,  as  well  he  might,  and,  taking 
up  the  claret-jug,  was  leaving  the  room,  when 
the  imperturbable  Frank,  who  all  this  while 
had  not  moved  a  muscle  of  his  countenance, 
called  out,"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Binns,  while  you 
are  about  it,  just  put  in  a  lump  or  two  of 
sugar  and  a  little  nutmeg  ;  it  is  rather  sour." 
This  was  too  much  for  my  poor  governor  ;  he 
got  up,  slammed  the  door,  and  retired  to  his 
snuggery,  growling  like  a  bear,  and  did  not 
appear  again  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Binns, 
I  need  scarcely  say,  did  not  boil  the  claret, 
but  brought  it  in  again,  and  Frank  calmly 
finished  it  whilst  he  chatted  to  me. 

Just  as  Charlie  and  I  finish  our  second 
bottle,  the  faithful  Binns  put  his  head  in,  to 
know  what  time  the  carriage  is  to  come  round 
to  take  us  to  the  ball.  In  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  time,  I  tell  him.  Just  one  whitewash 
of  sherry  apiece,  to  wind  up  and  set  every- 
thing straight,  and  we  retire  to  our  rooms  to 
put  the  finishing  touches  to  our  respective 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.      125 

toilets.  "  Good-bye,  Johnnie ! "  says  my 
mother,  "Don't  stay  too  late,  for  I'm  sure 
you  must  be  dreadfully  tired  ; "  and  down- 
stairs we  go,  and  jump  into  her  comfortable 
carriage.  Bang  goes  the  door,  and  away  we 
roll  to  Bedbury,  where,  in  the  Town  Hall,  is 
annually  held  what  is  called  by  the  natives, 
"  The  Steeplechase  Ball." 

Notwithstanding  Charlie's  lively  talk,  it 
seems  to  me  we  are  a  dreadful  long  while 
getting  there.  At  last  we  roll  over  the  stones 
of  the  little  town,  and  pull  up  in  the  rear 
of  a  long  line  of  carriages ;  after  about 
twenty  minutes'  slow  going  we  reach  the 
Town  Hall,  and  jump  out.  We  are  in  capital 
time,  and  they  are  just  in  the  middle  of  the 
fourth  dance,  which  happens  to  be  the  lively 
"L'CEil  Creve"  quadrille,  as  we  enter  the 
ballroom.  I  look  round  in  search  of  Blanche, 
but  can't  see  her  anywhere.  As  I  gaze  about, 
old  Mrs.  Mouser,  who  is  sitting  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  with  her  three  very  plain 


126      THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

daughters,  spots  me  with  that  hawk's  eye  of 
hers,  and  beckons  playfully  to  me  with  her 
fan.  Not  this  time  old  lady,  I  think  to  my- 
self. A  tap  on  the  elbow  rouses  me  presently, 
and,  turning  round,  behold  Blanche  and  her 
father.  "  We  came  just  behind  you,"  says 
she,  "  and  you  jumped  out  of  your  carriage  in 
such  a  hurry,  you  did  not  see  us,  though  I 
tapped  at  the  window  as  loud  as  possible." 

"  Now,  Blanche,  you  must  give  me  this 
dance,  a  waltz — won't  you?"  says  I. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  will,"  replies 
this  little  bully.  "  However,  as  they  are  just 
beginning,  and  I  may  not  get  another  part- 
ner directly,  perhaps  I  had  better  say  yes. 
Good-bye,  papa!  I  shall  be  at  the  end  of 
the  room  with  Mrs.  Bandoline  when  you 
want  me." 

Coote  and  Tinney's  band  strike  up  one  of 
GungTs  lovely  waltzes  and  away  we  go. 
After  that  is  over,  I  carry  off  Blanche  to 
have  some  tea.  She  promises  me  two  more 


THE  FATRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   127 

waltzes  and  a  galop,  and  before  five  minutes 
are  over  has  filled  her  card  completely  up 
with  the  names  of  her  numerous  admirers. 
She  is  such  a  pretty  girl,  and  such  a  good 
dancer,  that  she  is  always  in  great  request. 
But  hark  !  they  strike  up  the  first  bars  of  the 
"  Lancers."  Young  Rasper  rushes  up  to  claim 
Blanche,  so  I  betake  myself  to  the  doorway 
and  look  on,  in  company  with  a  whole  lot  of 
others,  all  chattering  like  so  many  magpies. 

"Halloo,  Cutway!"  says  one,  as  the  bold 
captain  lounges  up,  still  looking  rather  glum. 
"Why,  I  never  expected  to  see  you  here 
to-night,  after  that  mud  bath  you  indulged 
in  to-day.  Weren't  hurt,  I  hope? " 

"Hurt!  no!"  growls  Cutway.  "I'll  tell 
you  what,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  dog,  I 
must  have  won,  sir — I  must  have  won! 
Doosed  lucky  for  you.  Temple,  that  brute 
making  my  horse  refuse  in  that  way ;  depend 
upon  it,  if  he  hadn't  I  should  have  been 
level  with  you  at  the  last  hurdle." 


128   THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

The  "Lancers"  finishing  at  this  moment 
puts  a  stop  to  the  conversation,  and  Cutway 
goes  off;  and  by-and-bye  I  see  him  go  and 
shake  hands  with  Blanche.  She  has  one 
dance  disengaged,  late  on  in  the  evening,  so 
she  gives  it  him;  only  one,  thank  goodness — 
quite  enough  for  him,  though,  I  think  to 
myself.  The  next  three  dances  I  dance  with 
other  young  ladles  of  my  acquaintance,  and 
then  comes  a  galop  with  Blanche.  After 
that  is  over,  the  supper-room  is  thrown  open, 
and  I  ask  Blanche  to  come  down  with  me  ; 
she  very  graciously  assents,  as,  she  says,  she 
thinks  I  ought  to  be  made  much  of  after  my 
feat  of  winning  the  hunt  cup.  We  go 
through  the  usual  routine  of  chicken  and 
tongue,  champagne  and  seltzer.  Just  as  she 
is  putting  on  her  gloves,  she  suddenly  remem- 
bers she  is  engaged  for  the  next  dance  to  young 
Duffie,  a  gentleman,  son  of  an  enormously 
rich  Brummagem  manufacturer,  and  endowed 
with  considerably  more  money  than  brains. 


THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.      129 

"  Oh!  lie's  such  a  stupid  man,  Johnnie!  " 
she  exclaims,  "and  such  a  bad  dancer! 
What  shall  I  do  ?  How  can  I  avoid  him  ?  " 

"Til  tell  you,  Blanche.  We'll  go  and  sit 
in  the  tea-room ;  he'll  never  think  of  looking 
for  you  there." 

"  That  will  do  capitally  !  "  says  she.  "  Let 
us  be  off  now,  or  he  will  be  coming  in  here 
after  me." 

Off  we  go,  and  find  the  room  empty, 
except  a  waiter  and  a  maid,  who  are  con- 
ferring amiably  together  in  a  snug  corner 
behind  the  tea-table. 

"Well,  Blanche,"  I  begin,  "are  you  not 
sorry  poor  Cutway  did  not  win  to-day?'7 

"  Now,  Johnnie,  that  is  too  bad  of 
you.  You  know  I  wanted  nobody  to 
win  but  you ;  and  even  if  I  did  not  care 
about  you  yourself,  I  should  not  like  to 
have  seen  <  Becky  Sharp '  beaten.  Oh  !  I 
am  so  fond  of  her,  dear  old  '  Becky '  !  I 
sometimes  think,  do  you  know,  she  ought 


130     THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

to   have  me  for  a  mistress  instead  of  you 
for  a  master." 

"  Ah,  Blanche  !  dear  Blanche  !  "  I  whisper, 
"won't  you  say  you'll  be  ' Becky's'  mistress 
for  good  and  all  ?  You  don't  know  how  much 
I  love  you — I  do  indeed !  You  have  teased 
me  dreadfully  ever  since  I  came  back  from 
abroad,  and  I  did  not  know  how  much  I  loved 
you  till  then.  Say,  Blanche,  yes,  or  no — will 
you  be  my  wife?" 

"  Oh,  you  bad  boy ! "  replies  Blanche, 
looking  down  and  blushing  very  prettily. 
1  What  must  I  say  to  you  ?  You  seem  to 
think,  because  you  have  won  this  horrid  race, 
you  are  to  have  everything  your  own  way." 

"  Oh,  Blanche !  please  don't  tease  me.  Am 
I  to  go  abroad  again,  and  leave  you  for  ever  ? 
Don't  be  so  cruel :  tell  me  my  fate.  Do  you 
love  me?" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Blanche  replies,  her  little 
white-gloved  hand  which  is  in  mine  giving 
me  a  squeeze.  "  I  love  you  dearly,  Johnnie, 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   131 

and  you  have  made  me  very  happyr  you 
bad  young  man  !  I  could  cry.  Don't  kiss 
me,  sir! — Look!  there's  that  horrid  waiter 
laughing  at  us." 

"  You  have  made  me  so  happy,  Blanche ! 
I  may  come  over  to-morrow  morning  and  see 
the  general — mayn't  I  ?" 

At  this  juncture,  one  of  Blanche's  un- 
fortunate partners  pokes  his  nose  into  the 
tea-room  ;  several  of  them  have  been  drawing 
for  her,  but  he  is  the  only  hound  who  has  not 
drawn  blank. 

"Been  looking  everywhere  for  you,  Miss 
Dash  wood.  Our  dance  this  time,  I  think;" 
and  he  carries  her  off.  I  rush  off  to  find 
Charlie  Moore  ;  he  is  not  dancing,  luckily. 

"  Halloo !  young  man,"  says  he,  directly  he 
sees  me,  "  where  have  you  been  to,  and  what 
have  you  been  a-doin'  on?  There's  some- 
thing up  I  can  see  by  your  face.  Well,  has 
the  double  event  come  off?" 

"Come  off!  yes.     I've  won  in  a  canter  for 


132   THE  FAYRE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS. 

the  second  time  to-day.  I'm  the  happiest 
man  in  England,  and  I'm  dreadfully  thirsty; 
come  and  have  some  champagne." 

Off  we  go  ;  and  after  one  more  dance  with 
Blanche,  and  a  very  tender  "Good  night!" 
Charlie  and  I  take  our  departure  ;  and  I  fear 
that  my  mother's  carriage,  by  the  time  we 
get  home,  smells  like  a  cigar-shop 

The  next  day,  directly  after  breakfast,  I 
rode  over  to  the  Dashwoods',  saw  the  general, 
who  received  his  future  son-in-law  with  open 
arms,  and  had  a  very  delightful  ttte-h-ttte 
with  Blanche. 

My  story  is  finished.  Three  months  after- 
wards, gentle  reader,  if  you  had  cast  your  eye 
down  the  marriage  column  of  the  Times,  you 
might  have  seen  the  following  :— 

"  On  the  17th  June,  at  St.  Anne's  Church,  Cackleton,  by 
the  Eight  Eev.  the  Bishop  of  Porchester  (uncle  of  the 
bride),  assisted  by  the  Eev.  Samuel  Slowboy,  M.A.,  JOHN 
GEORGE  ARTHUR,  only  son  of  the  late  JOHN  TEMPLE,  Esq., 
of  Eyslip  House,  Bedbury,  Blankshire,  to  BLANCHE  MAUD, 
only  daughter  of  MAJOR-GENERAL  DASHWOOD,  C.B.,  of  The 
Mulberries,  near  Bedbury." 


THE  FAYKE  ONE  WITH  YE  GOLDEN  LOCKS.   133 

Of  course  Charlie  was  my  "  best  man  "  on 
the  occasion,  and  a  very  good  one  he  made. 
As  we  were  discussing  affairs  a  day  or  two 
before,  he  told  me  Cutway's  horses  were  all 
up  at  Tattersall's  to  be  sold  on  the  following 
Monday.  "He  was  very  hard  hit  on  the 
Two  Thousand,"  says  Charlie  ;  and  he 
continues,  "  I  think  I  shall  bid  for  the  brown 
horse  he  rode  in  that  steeplechase  of  yours." 

To  wind  up  :  "  Becky  Sharp "  is  never 
going  to  be  steeplechased  again  :  she  has 
become  a  perfect  lady's  horse,  and  in  future 
is  destined  for  the  sole  and  entire  use  of  the 
"  Fayre  One  with  ye  Golden  Locks." 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE. 


"  Now  then,  Jack,  how  much  longer  are  you 
going  to  be  ?  Do  leave  off  whistling  '  La 
Fille  de  Madame  Angot,'  and  look  sharp; 
I'm  nearly  famished.  The  fish  is  getting 
cold — kidneys  too."  The  speaker,  or  rather 
shouter,  Charlie  Wemyss,  captain  in  Her 
Majesty's  108th  Dragoon  Guards,  has  come 
to  breakfast  with  his  friend  and  relation,  the 
Hon.  Jack  Latchford,  and,  as  usual,  has  found 
that  worthy  snug  in  bed. 

"Don't  wait  for  me!"  shouts  back  the 
honourable,  who  is  dressing  very  leisurely  in 
the  adjoining  room,  whistling  all  the  while 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  135 

as  loud  as  he  can.     "Don't  wait  for  me;  I'll 
be  with  you  in  a  brace  of  shakes." 

Charlie  groans,  and,  once  more  taking  up 
BeWs  Life,  awaits  his  lazy  relation.  That 
gentleman  does  not  keep  him  long,  for  in 
two  minutes  he  appears  upon  the  scene  in  a 
free-and-easy  sort  of  semi-Turkish  costume 
— jacket  and  trousers  composed  of  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow,  slippers  to  match— 
unstudded  as  to  his  neck,  and  looking  alto- 
gether thoroughly  comfortable.  "  How  are 
you,  old  man?"  is  his  greeting.  "  Come  on, 
let's  set  to,  I'm  awfully  peckish."  Charlie, 
nothing  loth,  sits  himself  down  at  the  well- 
spread  breakfast-table,  and  the  two  begin  to 
peg  away,  in  most  workman-like  style,  at  the 
devilled  soles,  etc. 

The  "  Honourable  Jack "  is  one  of  those 
rosy-looking,  healthy  men  who  always  have 
an  appetite,  and  always  look  fresh,  no  matter 
how  many  brandies-and-sodas  and  cigars 
they  have  consumed  the  night  before.  Jack 


136  WON   BY   A   FLUKE. 

at  this  present  moment  is  very  hard  up. 
He  has  just  lost  a  cracker  on  the  "  Grand 
National/'  and  the  colt  he  has  backed  for  the 
"  Two  Thousand  "  has  gone  clean  to  the  bad, 
besides  which  he  is  very  much  in  debt; 
yet,  to  look  at  the  man,  you  would  think 
he  hadn't  a  care  in  the  world.  Behold 
him  now,  what  an  appetite  he  has!  how 
steadily  he  is  working  away  at  the  kidneys ! 
The  second  son  of  Lord  Coxcombe,  that 
well-known  patron  of  the  Turf,  devotedly 
addicted  to  all  field  sports— more  particularly 
racing — to  say  nothing  of  other  little  expen- 
sive amusements,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  he  finds  it  uncommonly  difficult  to 
make  both  ends  meet  at  the  end  of  the  year. 
A  glance  round  his  sitting-room  would  alone 
give  you  an  insight  into  his  tastes  and 
pursuits.  His  "crib,"  as  he  calls  it,  is 
situated,  by  the  way,  in  a  quiet  little  street 
out  of  St.  James's  Street.  Divers  fishing-rods 
and  gun-cases,  piled  up  in  a  corner,  denote 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  137 

that  their  owner  may  be  seen  at  times  scour- 
ing the  moor  or  stubble,  or'  walking  along 
the  banks  of  a  stream,  flogging  the  water 
sedulously  in  search  of  the  lovely  speckled 
trout  or  silvery  salmon  ;  whilst,  from  divers 
hunting-whips  and  a  couple  of  racing-saddles 
hung  against  the  wall,  we  may  infer  that  he 
sports  in  turn  "the  silk  and  the  scarlet." 
The  drama,  too,  evidently  enjoys  a  share  of 
his  patronage,  for  on  one  side  of  the  mantle- 
piece  is  a  photograph  of  Mr.  Sothern  as 
"  David  Garrick,"  balanced  on  the  other  by 
a  ditto  of  Mr.  Toole  in  one  of  his  well-known 
characters.  Several  portraits  of  past  Derby 
winners,  after  "  Harry  Hall,"  and  a  series  of 
hunting  and  steeplechase  scenes  adorn  his 
walls.  His  library  consists  of  a  few  odd 
volumes  of  the  "Racing  Calendar,"  "Sponge's 
Sporting  Tour,"  one  or  two  yellow-backed 
railway  novels,  and  last  month's  "  Baily,"  the 
rest  of  the  room  being  filled  up  with  the  usual 
miscellaneous  litter  of  a  bachelor's  apartment. 


138  WON   BY   A   FLUKE. 

At  last  breakfast  is  over,  and  each,  sousing 
himself  into  the  depths  of  an  armchair,  pro- 
ceeds to  smoke — Charlie  with  a  huge  cigar, 
Jack  with  a  meerschaum — "puff!  puff! 
puff  !  "  is  the  order  of  the  day.  Charlie  is 
the  first  to  open  his  mouth.  "  Have  you 
heard  anything  from  head-quarters  this 
morning?"  says  he.  "I  see  in  the  paper 
the  i  King's'  gone  back  in  the  betting  a  point 
or  two.  They  seem  to  be  backing  'Rasselas,' 
too,  like  steam,  notwithstanding  his  weight. 
It's  ridiculous.  They  think  because  he  won 
the  Derby  last  year  he  is  to  win  this  race 
with  9  st.  4  Ibs.  I  don't  see  it;  do  you?" 
"  No !  "  replied  Jack,  "  'Rasselas'  be  blowed  ; 
don't  believe  he'll  get  a  place  even.  By  Jove ! 
how  riled  my  governor  will  be  if  our  horse 
don't  pull  it  off.  I  know  he  hasn't  hedged 
a  farthing  of  his  money  yet  awhile,  and  I'm 
sure  I  haven't;  more  have  you — have  you?" 

At  this  juncture  a  tap  is  heard  at  the  door. 
"  Come  in!  "  shouts  Jack,  and  enter  James, 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  139 

his  well-drilled  body-servant.  "  One  of  Mr. 
Napper's  boys  brought  this  note,  sir."  "  All 
right,  James,  tell  him  to  wait ;  I'll  let  him 
know  if  there's  an  answer  directly."  "Very 
good,  sir,"  and  exit  James,  closing  the  door 
behind  him  in  a  quiet  way — peculiarly  his 
own — that  would  make  many  a  swell  cracks- 
man envious  of  him  for  life. 

Jack  tears  the  letter  open  in  great  haste, 
and  proceeds  to  read.  "  Here's  a  pretty 
go!"  he  exclaims.  "What  the  deuce  is  to 
be  done  ?  I  don't  understand  it.  Here,  read 
it,  Charlie  and  see  what  you  can  make  of  it ; " 
and,  so  saying,  he  chucks  the  note  over  to 
him  and  stamps  about  the  room. 

"There's  something  wrong  with  '  King 
Pippin,'  I'll  bet  a  'underd,''  remarks  James  to 
himself,  in  the  room  beneath ;  turning  rather 
pale  at  the  same  time,  for  he  has  half  a  year's 
wages  on  him. 

Let  us  peep  over  Charlie's  shoulder  as  he 
reads — 


140  WON   BY  A   FLUKE. 

"  Swett ering  Lodge,  Epsom, 

"  Tuesday. 
"DEAR    SIR, 

"  I  send  this  by  one  of  my  lads, 
thinking  it  best  not  to  telegraph.  l  King 
Pippin,5  after  a  gallop  this  morning,  pulled 
up  very  lame.  Several  somebodies  were  about, 
so  you  won't  be  surprised  if,  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  you  find  he  has  gone  to  100  to  1  for 
the  City  and  Suburban.  Sir,  don't  be  afraid. 
Take  all  the  thousands  to  ten  obtainable,  and, 
if  possible,  come  and  see  the  horse  to-morrow, 
when  I  will  explain  matters  to  you  fully. 

"  I  remain,  sir, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  JOSEPH  NAPPER. 

"The  Honlle.  John  Latchford," 

"  Well,  old  boy,  what  do  you  think  of 
that?*'  says  Jack,  as  Charlie  finishes  his 
perusal.  "  I  must  light  another  cigar  on 
top  of  it,"  answers  his  cousin.  "  It  has  quite 
knocked  me  out  of  time.  By  jingo !  how 
savage  your  governor  will  be  if  there  is 
anything  really  wrong."  Charlie  lights  his 
cigar  and  takes  up  the  letter  once  more. 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  141 

There  is  a  dead  pause  for  two  or  three 
minutes.  All  of  a  sudden  Charlie  jumps  up ; 
"  Look  here,  Jack,  I  see  through  it ;  I  believe 
Joe  knows  what  he  is  about  better  than  any 
man  in  England.  I  don't  believe  there's 
anything  really  the  matter,  after  all,  with  the 
'  King.'  We'll  do  as  he  says,  and  take  all 
the  long  odds  we  can  get  about  him,  and 
to-morrow  we'll  go  down  and  see  him." 
"  Agreed ! "  exclaims  Jack,  "  I'll  write  a  note 
at  once  and  say  we'll  be  there."  In  five 
minutes  the  note  is  written;  James  again 
appears  and  disappears,  and  the  Honourable 
Jack  retires  to  his  bedroom  to  don  his  every- 
day costume.  And  now  let  us  leave  the  pair 
for  the  present. 

As  I  have  before  mentioned,  Jack  is  the 
second  son  of  Yiscount  Coxcombe,  and  is  the 
son  of  all  others,  after  his  father's  own  heart. 
The  eldest  son,  the  Hon.  Eustace  Latchford, 
is  quite  a  different  sort ;  Exeter  Hall,  playing 
the  violoncello,  and  collecting  old  china  being 


/ 
142  WON    BY    A   FLUKE. 

his  line  of  country.  His  lordship  at  this 
present  moment  is  quite  as  hard  up  as  the 
Honourable  Jack,  if  not  harder.  Now  just 
at  this  time  he  is  the  possessor  of  that 
good-looking  four-year-old,  "King  Pippin/' 
by  "  Richard  I."  out  of  "  Appleblossom." 
"  King  Pippin/'  as  all  the  world  knows,  ran 
fourth  for  the  Derby  last  year,  backed  for  a 
heap  of  money  by  his  noble  owner  and  his 
friends.  Several  young  swells  had  failed  to 
put  in  an  appearance  at  Tattersall's  on 
settling-day  ;  several  gallant  young  soldiers 
exchanged  into  regiments  going  to  India,  all 
owing  to  his  majesty  "  King  Pippin."  To 
crown  all,  when  they  again  backed  him  for 
his  Leger,  he  fell  lame  a  week  before  the 
race,  and  let  the  whole  party  in  once  more 
Since  then  he  had  been  allowed  to  be  idle. 
However,  he  was  entered  for  the  City  and 
Suburban,  and  got  in  with  only  7  st.  4  Ibs.  to 
carry.  He  was  once  more  put  into  training, 
and  being  roughed  up  one  fine  morning  with 


PIPPIN      GON'E     TO     ICQ   TO  i 

JOHhi        THOMA$        1$       QUITE 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  143 

one  or  two  others,  clearing  the  lot  of  them 
out  very  easily,  they  once  more  backed  him 
to  win  a  small  fortune.  Lord  Coxcombe  has 
backed  him  to  win  him  £50,000.  The 
Honourable  Jack  is  on  well  also  ;  indeed,  all 
the  family,  from  his  lordship  down  to  his 
helpers  in  the  stables,  are  behind  the  redoubt- 
able "King  Pippin.'7  Even  Lady  Coxcombe's 
maid  has  a  fiver  on  at  30  to  1,  and  has  pro- 
mised, should  the  good  thing  come  off,  to 
make  John  Thomas,  her  ladyship's  tallest 
and  best-looking  footman,  happy  by  endow- 
ing him  with  her  hand  and  heart. 

Judge,  then,  how  they  are  all  taken  aback 
one  morning  when  they  see,  in  the  betting 
quotations  in  the  Standard,  100  to  1  against 
"King  Pippin"  offered.  The  establishment 
down  in  Hampshire  is  turned  upside  down. 
My  lord  is  nearly  frantic ;  all  his  money  lost 
again,  and  no  chance  of  getting  any  back. 
John  Thomas,  anathematizing  the  Turf  and 
everything  connected  with  it,  proceeds  to 


144  WON   BY    A   FLUKE. 

vent  his  anger  on  Mary,  his  sweetheart,  who 
weeps  freely  when  she  hears  the  "  'orrid 
news."  Quilter,  the  stud-groom — master  of 
the  horse  he  calls  himself — takes  a  dogcart 
and  drives  furiously  over  to  Winchester, 
there  to  soothe  his  ruffled  feelings  in  caven- 
dish and  brandy -and- water ;  and  as  for  poor 
Mons.  Tricochet,  the  chef,  he  gives  way  to 
tears  and  absinthe  in  his  private  apartment, 
and  that  evening  sends  up  the  very  worst 
dinner  he  has  ever  been  known  to  since  he 
has  studied  the  noble  art  of  gastronomy.  It 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  next  morning 
the  Viscount  Coxcombe  woke  up  with  a 
tremendous  attack  of  gout. 

The  Honourable  Jack,  as  has  been  seen, 
took  matters  much  more  quietly ;  as  Charlie 
Wemyss  advised,  he  drove  his  cab  calmly 
down  to  Tattersall's  and  took  all  the  thou- 
sands to  ten  he  could  lay  his  hands  upon ; 
his  cousin  betaking  himself  at  the  same  time 
to  another  well-known  club  further  east,  and 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  145 

doing  the  same.  Bookmakers  began  to  smell 
a  rat,  and  before  the  evening  the  horse  had 
come  back  to  33  to  1,  taken  freely. 

Great  was  the  mystery.  "  King  Pippin's  " 
backers,  who  numbered  legion,  couldn't  make 
it  out  at  all.  Here  at  one  moment  the  book- 
makers were  laying  against  the  horse  as  if 
he  were  dead,  the  next  he  came  back  in  the 
betting  with  a  bound  to  a  quarter  of  the 
price.  The  British  public  were  completely 
puzzled.  The  faithful  James,  who  always 
stood  in  a  trifle  with  his  master  in  any  of  his 
good  things,  was  told  to  send  £20  here  and 
£10  there  to  all  the  different  advertising 
firms  in  Scotland,  in  his  own  name,  of  course, 
giving  them  all  a  turn — little  and  big — as 
the  Honourable  Jack  remarked. 

James  chuckled  respectably  to  himself  (he 
never  indulged  in  anything  so  coarse  as  a 
laugh),  when  all  the  different  vouchers  from 
Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  came  pouring  in,  in 
return  for  his  post-office  orders.  The  next 


146  WON   BY   A    FLUKE. 

morning,  soon  after  nine  o'clock,  saw  our  two 
friends  bowling  along  merrily  in  a  fast-going 
hansom  "  en  route  for  the  palace  of  *  King 
Pippin,'  "  emitting  perfect  clouds  of  cigar- 
smoke  as  they  spun  along.  After  a  pleasant 
three  hours'  drive  on  this  bright  spring 
morning,  the  trainer's  snug  ivy-covered 
house  is  reached,  and  there,  waiting  for  them 
at  the  front  door,  is  Joe  Napper  himself— 
"  King  Pippin's  "  trainer — Joe  looking  most 
uncommonly  pleased  with  himself  for  some 
reason  or  another.  He  greets  the  two 
gentlemen  with  much  cordiality  as  they 
alight  from  their  hansom.  Good-looking 
Mrs.  Joe  runs  out  too,  to  say  "how  d'ye  do." 
The  Honourable  Jack  is  evidently  a  favourite 
with  that  lady,  and  great  was  the  chaff  between 
them.  They  go  into  the  house,  and  after  a 
brandy-and-soda  all  round,  the  two  adjourn 
to  the  stables.  "  Let's  go  straight  to  the 
4  King,'  Joe,"  says  Jack;  "we'll  see  the  rub- 
bish afterwards."  His  majesty's  box  is  soon 


WON   BY    A   FLUKE.  147 

reached,  and  Joe,  taking  a  key  from  his 
pocket,  unlocks  the  door  and  ushers  the  party 
in.  ' c  King  Pippin  "  is  a  bright  bay,  with  black 
points  and  a  white  star  on  his  forehead — one 
of  the  long,  low  sort,  looking  all  over  like 
staying  ;  indeed,  as  Joe  Napper  himself  ex- 
presses it,  "  Lor'  bless  yer,  he  can  stay  as 
long  as  a  lady  in  a  bonnet  shop."  Altogether 
he  is  a  real  good-looking  one,  a  little  big, 
perhaps  ;  but,  then,  he  is  not  yet  thoroughly 
wound  up. 

"  The  rogue's  only  had  a  walk  this  morn- 
ing ;  have  you,  old  chap?  "  says  Joe  patting 
the  "King"  on  his  quarter,  which  the  horse 
resents  by  playfully  turning  round  and  pre- 
tending to  bite  him.  Jack  and  his  cousin 
are  silent  ;  the  boy  is  there,  and  they  well 
know  Joe  won't  let  out  stable  secrets  until 
they  are  alone  in  the  house.  Their  visit  to 
"  King  Pippin"  being  over,  they  next  make  an 
inspection  of  several  other  nags,  the  property 
of  Lord  Coxcombe,  together  with  three  or 


148  WON   BY   A    FLUKE. 

four  others  the  property  of  some  one  else,  and 
wind  up  with  some  promising  looking  year- 
lings ;  that  over,  they  adjourn  to  the  house, 
where  a  sumptuous  lunch  is  in  waiting  for 
them,  presided  over  by  comely  Mrs.  Joe. 
Full  justice  having  been  done  to  it,  Joe  gives 
his  "Missus,"  as  he  calls  her,  a  wink  ;  and 
Mrs.  Joe,  who  is  a  rare  hand  at  taking  a 
hint,  takes  her  departure.  Cigars  are  pro- 
duced, and  then  the  trainer  proceeds  to  tell 
his  tale  to  anxious  listeners. 

It  appeared  that  the  "King"  was  having  his 
usual  long  gallop  the  first  thing  the  previous 
morning,  when,  on  pulling  up,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  he  had  twisted  one  of  his  plates, 
and  walked  a  little  lame  in  consequence. 
Joe,  who  was  on  his  hack  looking  on,  and 
who,  as  usual,  was  wide  awake,  proceeded  to 
make  a  great  fuss  about  the  horse,  walking 
him  very  slowly  home,  and  stopping  every 
now  and  then  as  if  the  "King"  had  broken 
down  badly,  as  he  well  knew  several  touts 


WON    BY   A   FLUKE.  149 

would  be  safe  to  be  looking  on,  and  in  less 
than  an  hour  it  would  be  equally  certain  to 
be  wired  all  over  the  place  that  "  King  Pippin  " 
had  broken  down. 

"  He  ain't  been  out  at  all  to-day,"  says  Joe, 
rubbing  his  hands  ;  "  but  he  will  to-morrow, 
and  if  he  don't  do  such  a  gallop  as  will  bring 
him  to  4  to  1  before  the  day's  out,  and 
frighten  'em  all  out  of  their  lives,  why,  I'll 
eat  him,  that's  all.  Why,  the  horse  is  as 
sound  as  a  bell.  What  a  getting  out  there 
will  be,  to  be  sure.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  "  Joe  hugs 
himself  at  the  very  idea.  "  There's  just  a 
fortnight  to  wind  him  up  in,  and  bar  accident, 
he'll  be  as  ripe  as  a  peach  on  the  day." 

"  Well  done,  Joe,"  say  we.  Fresh  cigars 
are  lit,  and  another  short  visit  paid  to  "King 
Pippin,"  and  then  the  hansom  is  ordered 
round ;  and  bidding  adieu  to  Joe  and  his 
wife,  off  Jack  and  Charlie  go  again  to  town, 
highly  delighted  with  "  King  Pippin,"  Joe, 
themselves,  and  the  world  in  general.  Jack's 


150  WON   BY   A   FLUKE. 

letter  that  evening  to  his  noble    "  parient " 
speaks  volumes  : 

"  Noodles, 

"  Wednesday. 

"  MY  DEAR  FATHER, 

"  Just  come  back  from  Joe's.  '  King 
Pippin's '  as  well  as  ever  he  was  in  his  life  ; 
to-morrow  will  be  going  again  like  great 
guns  ;  the  City  and  Sub.  is  a  gift  for  him  if 
he  keeps  well.  Sorry  to  hear  about  the  gout. 
Hope  this  will  send  it  away.  Love  to  my 
mother. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"JOHN  LATCHFORD." 

The  great  day  at  last  arrives,  and  never 
was  the  Epsom  Spring  Meeting  ushered  in 
under  better  auspices.  The  morning  broke 
light  and  clear,  and  there  was  every  prospect 
of  an  enjoyable  outing  for  the  sporting 
Londoners. 

"King  Pippin"  has  been  doing  first-rate 
work  the  past  fortnight,  and  is  as  fit  as 
hands  can  make  him.  Lord  Coxcombe  and 
his  friends  fear  nothing.  As  Joe  Napper 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  151 

predicted,  the  getting  out  of  those  who 
laid  heavily  against  him  on  the  strength 
of  his  supposed  break-down  was  a  caution. 
They  were  glad  to  back  him  at  any  price  ; 
consequently,  only  2  to  1  is  offered  on 
the  field,  and  "King  Pippin"  is  a  hot  first 
favourite.  "Rasselas''  with  all  his  weight 
is  next,  at  4  to  1. 

Several  minor  races  are  run  before  the  big 
event,  and  as  the  time  draws  nigh,  and  the 
"King"  makes  his  appearance  in  the  paddock, 
led  by  Joe  himself,  there  is  a  perfect  rush  to 
look  at  him.  He  certainly  looks  fit  to  run 
for  his  life  ;  and  well  may  Lord  Coxcombe  be 
proud  of  him,  as  he  and  his  son  Jack  super- 
intend his  toilet.  Johnnie  Prosper — "the 
Pocket  Hercules,"  as  he  is  called — stands  by, 
ready  to  ride,  and  has  been  put  on  £500 
to  nothing  if  he  wins  ;  and,  to  all  appearance, 
he  is  pretty  pleased  with  his  mount.  Doffing 
his  tiny  greatcoat,  he  appears  in  a  brand-new 
mauve  jacket  and  white  cap.  A  hoist  from 


152  WON   BY   A   FLUKE. 

Joe,  and  he  is  in  the  saddle  in  a  second.  My 
lord  and  party  then  leave  the  paddock,  and 
make  the  best  of  their  way  to  their  private 
box  in  the  Stand,  which  they  reach  just  as 
the  horses  emerge  on  to  the  course,  led  by 
"Rasselas,"  with  that  celebrated  horseman 
Tom  Walloper  in  the  saddle.  Twenty -five  of 
them  walk  past  in  Indian  file,  then,  turning 
round,  they  take  their  canter.  "  King  Pippin  " 
looks  and  goes  so  well  that  at  last  7  to  4  is 
the  best  offer  on  the  field.  Now  they  reach 
the  post.  Glasses  are  out  in  every  direction. 
"They're  off!"  "Hats  off!"  "  No,  they're 
not ;  false  start ; "  and  again  the  hubbub  of 
many  tongues  goes  on.  "Hats  off!"  again. 
"  No  !  another  false  start."  "  It's  that  brute 
Malplaquet  won't  join  his  horses,  and  is 
kicking  like  fun."  All  in  line  once  more. 
"Now  they're  off,  for  a  pony!"  cries  Jack. 
Right  this  time.  Clang  goes  that  dreadful 
bell.  There  is  a  dead  silence  until  they  are 
seen  streaming  round  Tattenham  Corner. 


THE       CilTY 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  153 

Mauve  jacket  is  seen  in  the  van.  "  Lord 
Coxcombe  wins,  for  a  thoosand !  "  bellows  a 
great  north -country  bookmaker  at  the  top  of 
his  stentorian  voice. 

On  they  come  ;  whips  and  spurs  hard  at 
work.  His  lordship  drops  his  glasses  and 
bites  his  lip.  Jack  is  wild  with  excitement. 
"  Rasselas  "  is  in  front ! — "  Rasselas  wins  !  " 
"  No  he  don't ! "  Something  in  black  and 
orange  shoots  out;  its  "North  Star,"  a  rank 
outsider.  "King  Pippin's"  jockey  makes  a 
terrific  effort.  No  go.  "North  Star"  wins 
cleverly  by  half  a  length.  There  is  no  doubt 
about  it.  A  tremendous  cheer  from  the 
ring  announces  the  defeat  of  the  favourite. 
Jack  turns  visibly  pale — his  lordship  green, 
Another  moment,  and  up  go  the  numbers, 
22—7—1 :  "North  Star"  first,  "King  Pippin" 
second,  and  "Rasselas"  third.  Lord  Coxcombe, 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  the  whole  business, 
throws  himself  back  in  his  chair ;  Jack  grinds 
his  teeth,  and  feels  strongly  inclined  to  hit 


154  WON   BY   A   FLUKE. 

somebody.  But,  stay,  there  is  surely  some 
commotion  in  the  ring  below !  Charlie  looks 
out  over  the  box.  "By  heavens!"  he  ex- 
claims, "I  believe  there  is  an  objection.  Come 
on,  Jack."  And  without  more  ado,  he  runs 
downstairs  as  hard  as  he  can  split,  followed 
by  Jack  and  his  lordship.  As  they  reach  the 
weighing-room  it  is  clear  something  out  of 
the  common  is  going  on.  They  rush  in. 
Sure  enough,  Joe  Napper  has  objected  to  the 
winner  on  the  ground  that  the  jockey  who 
rode  him  had  carried  4  Ibs.  overweight,  and 
had  not  declared  it  before  the  race.  It  is 
to  go  before  the  stewards  directly.  "  Well 
done  Joe!"  say  we.  Half  an  hour  after- 
wards those  gentlemen  met,  and  as  a  matter 
of  course,  disqualify  "North  Star"  and  declare 
"King  Pippin"  winner  of  the  City  and 
Suburban.  Lord  Coxcombe,  Jack,  Charlie 
Wemyss,  and  their  friends  have  won  a 
heap  of  money.  Joe  Napper,  too,  has  won 
more  than  he  ever  won  before  in  his  life. 


WON   BY   A   FLUKE.  155 

Depend  upon  it,  -Mrs.  Joe  will  have  some- 
thing very  handsome  to  remember  this 
auspicious  day  by. 

That  "King  Pippin"  may  win  many  more 
races  for  his  noble  owner  is  our  cordial  wish. 
But  if  he  does  win  a  big  race  again,  as  the 
Honourable  Jack  remarked,  with  a  grin,  let 
us  hope  it  will  not  be  by  a  fluke. 


THREE    DERBY   WEEK   SKETCHES, 


i. 


TAKEN    AT    ETON. 

IT  is  what  is  commonly  called  a  "  whole 
school-day''  at  Eton,  and  a  very  hot  whole 
school-day  it  is.  To  be  particular,  it  is  the 
last  Wednesday  in  May,  consequently  a  week 
before  the  Derby.  It  is  three  o'clock  school, 
and  the  middle  division,  fourth  form,  are,  or  at 
least  are  supposed  to  be,  hard  at  work,  up  to 
their  master,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Swack.  About 
this  period  of  his  scholastic  career,  let  us 


THREE    DERBY    WEEK    SKETCHES.          157 

remark,  the  lively  Etonian  is  in  the  full 
bloom  of  impudence  and  mischief  generally. 
This  particular  division  manage  to  keep  poor 
Mr.  Swack  in  a  constant  state  of  excitement. 
Peeping  into  a  very  much  knocked  about 
and  dog's-eared  "Yonge's  Horace,"  we 
discern  on  the  fly-leaf  the  following  inscrip- 
tion :— "  Robert  Lovel,  Eton  Coll.,  Bucks," 
Underneath,  evidently  by  another's  hand,  is 
scrawled — "Commonly  called  'Lord  Lovel.'" 
Let  us  see  what  the  industrious  Master 
Lovel  is  up  to.  On  looking  round  the 
division,  it  would  be  hard  to  pick  out  a 
merrier-looking  specimen  of  the  Eton  boy 
than  "  Lord  Lovel,"  as  he  is  pretty  gene- 
rally called.  There  is  mischief  in  his  curly 
hair,  and  any  amount  of  cheek  in  his  laugh- 
ing blue  eye.  Mr.  Horace,  we  have  men- 
tioned is  in  front  of  him  on  the  desk,  and 
Master  Lovel's  chimney-pot  hat  is  on  the 
form  beside  him;  and,  apparently,  he  is 
paying  considerably  more  attention  to  the 


158          THREE   DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES. 

latter  than  the  former,  for  his  hand  is 
immersed  in  the  hat,  and  his  eye  is  watch- 
fully fixed  on  Mr.  Swack.  That  gentleman's 
spectacles  being  employed  on  the  boy  who 
is  construing,  the  hand  of  "Lord  Lovel" 
slowly  emerges  from  the  hat,  holding  a  small 
piece  of  paper. 

"A  beastly  outsider"  he  is  heard  to  mutter, 
as    he   reads    something    on    it.      "Go   on, 


minimus." 


The  small  boy  next  him,  Browne  minimus, 
takes  his  turn  at  the  hat,  and  soon  draws 
forth  another  piece  of  paper. 

"  Let's  look,"  says  Lovel.  "  '  Sefton ! '  Oh, 
he  won't  win!  Now  it's  my  turn  again." 

His  hand  once  more  emerges  from  the  hat. 
He  is  just  unfolding  the  little  piece  of  paper, 
when— 

"  Lovel,  what  are  you  doing  there,  sir?" 

It  is  the  voice  of  the  much -enduring  Mr. 
Swack,  who,  as  Lovel  expresses  it  afterwards, 
has  "just  nailed  him  on  the  post." 


THREE   DEKBY   WEEK   SKETCHES.          159 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  I  insist  upon 
knowing!^ 

"Nothing,  sir,"  replies  the  guilty  Lovel. 

"Nonsense,  sir.  Bring  that  piece  of  paper 
to  me  instantly — instantly,  do  you  hear,  sir? 
And  you  have  got  something  in  your  hat; 
bring  that  too." 

Master  Lovel,  amidst  a  general  titter, 
proceeds  to  obey  orders  very  reluctantly. 
Mr.  Swack  glares  fiercely  round,  while 
Lovel  makes  faces  behind  his  back,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  division. 

"What's  this!"  says  the  master,  unfold- 
ing one  of  the  pieces  of  paper,  and  with 
difficulty  reading  the  inscription  on  it. 
"What's  the  meaning  of  this?  Sir  Joseph, 
is  it?  What  is  it,  sir?  I  insist  upon 
knowing  immediately.  Who  is  Sir  Joseph, 
and  what  do  these  pieces  of  paper  mean? 
Cyprus,  too,  on  this  piece." 

"Oh,  Cyprus,  sir,"  replies  the  scapegrace. 
"  I  thought  everybody  knew  Cyprus  was  an 


160         THREE   DERBY   WEEK   SKETCHES. 

island  in  the  ^Egean  Sea.     Surely  there's  no 
harm    in   writing    that,    sir,    on   a   piece   of 
paper?     Practising  a  little  geography,  sir." 
The  division  shout  with  laughter. 
"Silence!"    roars    the    exasperated     Mr. 
Swack,  bounding  up.     "  The  whole  division 
will  write  out  a  Georgic,  and  bring  it  to- 
morrow at  one!     Lovel,  you  are,  without  ex- 
ception, the  idlest  boy  in  the  whole  of  the 
division.     I  shall  complain  of  you." 
"But,  Sir"  remonstrates  Lovel. 
"Not  another  word,"  replies   Mr.  Swack. 
"  I  will  leave  the  head  master  to  find  out 
what  you  mean  by  writing  names  on  pieces 
of  paper.     I  will  not  stand   it  any  longer. 
Prepositor,  take  this  to  the  head  master." 

At  this  juncture,  Master  Lovel,  seeing  that 
things  begin  to  look  serious,  puts  on  a  very 
penitent  face,  pretends  to  cry,  confesses  that 
it  was  a  little  Derby  lottery  he  was  engaged 
in,  that  he  is  very  sorry,  and  will  never  do 
it  again.  The  end  of  all  which  is,  that 


THREE    DEKBY   WEEK    SKETCHES.          161 

Mr.  Swack,  who  is  the  kindest-hearted  man 
in  existence,  lets  the  scapegrace  off  with — 
"A  hundred  lines  to-morrow  at  one,  sir"  He 
then  makes  a  few  remarks  on  the  horrors 
of  gambling,  and  winds  up  with  a  grim 
joke,  in  which  the  Isthmian  games  and  the 
Derby  are  brought  into  play. 

The  division  applauded  the  joke,  and  took 
the  opportunity  to  stamp  and  laugh  for  fully 
five  minutes. 

Four  o'clock  strikes,  and  books  are  shut, 
and  they  are  off  like  a  shot.  Master 
Lovel  and  Browne  minimus  adjourn  to 
"Webber's"  for  a  strawberry  mess,  and 
we  regret  to  say  that  they  had  not  been 
in  that  establishment  five  minutes  before 
arrangements  had  been  made  for  another 
lottery  between  the  pair,  to  take  place  at 
five  o'clock  school.  "Lord  Lovel"  goes 
off  to  his  room,  to  write  out  part  of 
his  hundred  lines  for  to-morrow;  Browne 
minimus  retires  to  his,  to  write  down 


M 


162         THREE   DERBY   WEEK   SKETCHES. 

once  more  the  names  of  all  the  Derby 
horses  on  some  more  little  pieces  of  paper. 

There  we  will  leave  these  young  "  vessels 
of  wrath,"  trusting  that  when  five  o'clock 
school  comes,  and  they  are  well  into  their 
lottery,  the  long  suffering  Mr.  Swack  will 
once  more  nail  them  both,  and  complain  of 
them  without  mercy. 

Since  the  above  was  written,  we  have  heard 
from  "Lord  Level's "  brother  (a  contemporary 
of  our  own)  that  his  scamp  of  a  minor  brought 
off  the  lottery  all  right,  and  not  only  that, 
drew  "Sir  Joseph"  in  the  "house  sweep." 
We  prophesy  that  he  will  be  swished  and 
tamed  down  before  the  end  of  the  half. 


THREE    DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES.          163 

II. 

A   PILLAR    OF    THE    CHURCH. 

AGAIN  a  week  before  the  great  event.  Let 
us  peep  for  a  moment  into  the  snug  break- 
fast-room of  the  rectory  house,  Upton-curn- 
Mudbank.  The  rector  and  his  wife  have 
just  finished  their  morning  meal.  The  former, 
a  hale-looking,  ruddy-faced  gentleman  of  fifty- 
five  or  thereabouts,  has  just  wound  up  a 
remarkably  good  breakfast,  according  to  cus- 
tom, with  a  little  bit  of  toast  and  marmalade, 
and  is  now  deep  in  the  columns  of  the  Times. 
His  spouse  is  perusing  a  letter  from  her  boy 
at  Eton,  the  principal  theme  of  which  is  a 
demand  for  some  more  money,  or,  as  he  ele- 
gantly terms  it,  "tin."  The  rector  is  the 
first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  My  dear,"  says  he,  "  don't  you  think  we 
ought  soon  to  be  thinking  of  running  up 
to  town,  and  seeing  the  Academy,  and— 


164          THREE   DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES. 

and  Holman  Hunt's  new  picture,  and  go  to 
the  opera — eh?  It  really  is  such  lovely 
weather,  it  struck  me  we  might  be  off  on 
Monday,  if  you  could  get  ready.  What  do 
you  think,  my  dear?" 

"  My  dear"  smiles  quietly  to  herself,  for  the 
fact  is  this  speech  of  the  reverend's  is  an 
annual,  always  in  flower  just  at  this  time;  in 
fact,  she  had  been  on  the  look  out  for  it  the 
last  two  mornings,  and  has  for  some  time  had 
everything  ready  for  a  start  at  short  notice. 
After  a  little  pretended  demur  on  her  part,  it 
is  agreed  that  they  start  on  the  Monday; 
meanwhile  she  takes  the  opportunity  of  men- 
tioning the  Etonian's  wants. 

The  rector,  as  in  duty  bound,  forthwith 
"  forks  out,"  and  having  gained  his  point,  walks 
off  to  smoke  his  cigar  and  pay  his  after- 
breakfast  visit  to  the  stable.  And  let  us  ask, 
Why  is  his  reverence  in  such  a  desperate  hurry 
to  go  up  to  town  ?  Is  the  Academy  closed  the 
first  week  in  June  ?  Perhaps  Holman  Hunt's 


THEEE   DERBY   WEEK   SKETCHES.          165 

picture  will  be  exhibited  for  the  last  time  on 
Tuesday  next,  the  4th  of  June.  But  stay! 
Is  not  the  Derby  run  on  Wednesday,  the  5th ! 
Ha,  ha!  We  have  his  reverence.  On  in- 
quiry from  one  of  his  intimate  friends,  we 
gather  that  the  rector  has  not  been  known  to 
miss  the  great  race  for  we  are  afraid  to  say 
how  many  years.  There  is  a  certain  look,  too, 
about  the  way  in  which  his  clothes  are  made, 
and  the  natty  manner  his  white  neckcloth, 
secured  by  a  smart  pearl  pin,  is  tied,  that 
somehow  or  other  makes  one  immediately 
connect  him  with  sport.  And  his  looks  don't 
belie  him,  for  there  is  no  better  shot  or 
thrower  of  a  fly  for  miles  round  ;  and  getting 
on  in  years  though  he  be,  and  not  so  light 
either,  he  can  still  keep  his  place  in  the  front 
rank  in  a  good  thing  across  country. 

There  is  a  story  told  of  him,  that  once, 
when  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  in  a  distant 
county,  he  was  lucky  enough  to  come  in 
for  the  run  of  the  season  with  the  hounds 


166          THREE    DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES. 

in  those  parts.  There  is  always  one  "  finest 
run  that  ever  was  seen"  with  every  pack 
of  hounds  in  the  course  of  each  year.  The 
rector,  being  capitally  mounted,  as  usual 
rode  like  a  man,  and  probably,  as  he  was 
not  near  his  own  parish,  he  put  a  little  extra 
steam  on  for  the  occasion.  However,  this  it 

is.      Lord ,  the   master,  jogging   along 

the  road  homewards,  surrounded  by  five  or 
six  men,  all  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  the 
run,  and  more  than  one  of  them  laying  claim 
to  being  best  man  on  the  occasion ;  after 
listening  in  silence  for  some  time,  his  lord- 
ship pulled  them  up  short  by  saying  very 
quietly,  "  Well,  gentlemen,  you  may  say 
what  you  like  ;  but  that  customer  in  black 
there"  (customer,  we  regret  to  say,  was  not 
the  word) — pointing  to  our  friend  the  rector, 
who  was  a  little  ahead  of  them,  as  he  spoke, 
with  his  hunting-whip — "  beats  all  our  heads 
off."  After  that  not  a  word  more  was  said  on 
the  subject,  for  it  was  agreed  by  nearly  all 


THREE   DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES.          167 

but  the  jealous  ones,  that  the  sporting  rector 
had  out  and  out  the  best  of  it  from  end  to 
end ;  Jack  Spigot,  my  lord's  huntsman, 
going  so  far  as  to  tell  his  master  "  that  yon 
was  just  about  the  best  pas  son  as  iver  he 


see." 


Let  us  observe  that,  notwithstanding  his 
sporting  propensities,  he  is  quite  as  good 
in  his  parish  as  he  is  in  the  hunting-field. 
A  thorough  country  gentleman,  he  under- 
stands to  a  nicety  the  manners  and  customs 
of  his  flock,  and  how  to  treat  them,  con- 
sequently they  all  pull  together.  No  man 
either  in  the  diocese  is  more  popular  with 
his  bishop,  who,  knowing  his  sterling  merits, 
winks  at  his  subordinate's  brown  tops  and 
feats  in  the  pigskin. 

Go  into  the  paddock  on  the  Derby  day, 
and  there,  I  will  venture  to  say,  you  will 
see  the  reverend  smarter  than  ever,  in- 
specting each  favourite  with  a  critical  eye ; 
and  take  my  word  for  it,  if  you  were  to 


168          THREE   DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES. 

invest  your  fiver  on  the  horse  he  fancies, 
you  would  not  be  very  far  off  the  winner 
of  the  Derby. 

POST   SCRIPTUM. 

"Preservative  Club, 
"  Wednesday  Night,  6th  June. 

"I  have  just  got  back  from  the  Derby, 
true  to  my  word.  I  had  not  been  in  the 
paddock  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  I  ran 
across  my  old  friend  the  rector.  '  And  do  you 
know,'  said  he,  after  we  had  a  long  dis- 
cussion concerning  all  the  horses,  'do  you 
know,  I  really  think  'Sir  Joseph'  will  win. 
I  do  indeed!" 


fYL/M- 


THE   Rtvff\tMD"(A  SKETCH  »N  THE    PADDOCK) 


THREE  DERBY  WEEK  SKETCHES.    169 


III. 

"  JANNETTE." 

WHAT  can  have  happened  to  turn  topsy- 
turvy the  hitherto  comfortable  little  establish- 
ment of  Mr.  Sam  Slowleaf,  family  grocer 
and  Italian  warehouseman,  High  Street, 
Slumborough  ? 

Here,  again,  we  will  look  in  at  break- 
fast time.  Pretty  little  Mrs.  Slowleaf  (Slow 
has  only  been  married  three  months)  is 
sipping  her  tea  in  solemn  silence;  her 
eyelids  are  extremely  red,  as  if  she  had 
been  in  tears,  and  she  won't  speak  to  her 
husband,  who,  naturally  enough,  wants  to 
know  the  reason  why.  However,  her  sudden 
and  unaccountable  fit  of  temper  does  not 
spoil  his  appetite,  and  having  made  a  sub- 
stantial breakfast,  he  rises  to  go  to  his  duties 
in  the  shop.  This  is  the  signal  for  a  burst 
of  tears  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  S. 


170          THREE    DERBY   WEEK    SKETCHES. 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  now?" 
says  Sam,  considerably  astonished.  "  Fanny, 
what  is  it?  Tell  me,  my  dear."  And  he 
proceeds  to  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  by 
way  of  comfort,  but  he  is  received  with— 

"  Oh,  you  brute !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself!  I  wonder  you  can  dare  to  look 
me  in  the  face."  (Sob,  sob,  sob.)  "  Jannette, 
indeed ! "  (Sob  and  a  hiccup.)  "  I  only  wish 
I  could  come  across  her,  the  nasty  creature ! 
Oh,  you  wretch!  I'll  go  home  to  mother 

this  very  day.  I  wish "  Then  comes 

a  perfect  avalanche  of  tears,  as  the  lady 
throws  herself  exhausted  in  an  easy-chair. 

The  cause  of  all  this  excitement  is  as 
follows : — 

Mrs.  Slowleaf  waking  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  previous  night,  was  considerably 
astonished  to  hear  her  lord  and  master  more 
than  once  muttering  the  name  of  "Jannette" 
in  his  sleep.  "Who  can  it  be?"  she  thought. 
"  Sam  was  rather  sweet  on  Mary  Brown 


THREE  DERBY  WEEK  SKETCHES.    171 

before  he  knew  me  ;  but  she's  married,  so 
it  can't  be  her.  But  I'll  find  it  out  if  I 
die  for  it."  So  saying,  she  sat  up  in  bed 
and  waited  for  more.  She  had  not  long  to 
wait. 

"  'Jannette's'  the  one  for  my  money!" 
she  hears  him  say,  with  a  flourish  of  his 
arm  that  nearly  catches  her  on  her  nose. 
"She  can  stay  for  a  week,  and  she's  as  fast 
as  you  please." 

"Oh,  you  low  fellow ! "  mutters  the  poor 
little  woman,  shaking  her  fist  at  the  un- 
conscious monster. 

"  '  Jannette '  walks  in." 

"Not  while  Tm  here,"  thinks  the  indig- 
nant wife,  grinding  her  teeth  with  anger. 
She  then  gets  up,  dresses,  has  a  good  cry, 
writes  a  very  long  letter  to  her  fond  mother, 
has  another  cry,  and  sits  herself  down  to 
wait  until  breakfast  time  to  have  it  out 
with  Sam. 

Of  her  delight  when  she  learns  the  real 


172          THREE   DERBY   WEEK   SKETCHES. 

history  of  "  Jannette ''—how  that  she  is  no 
designing  damsel,  but  simply  the  favourite 
for  the  Oaks — we  will  not  dwell  upon.  The 
finale  of  the  whole  business  is,  that  after  an 
unheard-of  number  of  kisses  had  passed  be- 
tween the  two — considerably  more  than  were 
absolutely  necessary — and  a  little  more  cry- 
ing on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Slowleaf,  Sam  told 
his  pretty  wife  to  immediately  order  herself 
a  brand-new  bonnet  and  dress,  and  that  he 
would  take  her  up  to  London  and  see  the 
sights,  and  if  she  liked  she  should  go  to 
the  Derby  and  the  Oaks  into  the  bargain — 
"and  there,"  said  wicked  Sam,  "you  can 
scold  { Jannette'  to  your  heart's  content." 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  kind,  good-for-nothing 
Sam !  "  exclaimed  his  delighted  wife,  making 
a  rush  at  him. 

We  regret  to  say  there  was  more  kissing  ; 
and  it  was  a  good  twelve  o'clock  before 
this  gallant  young  grocer  was  once  more 
at  work  amongst  his  "prunes"  and  "figs." 


THREE  DERBY  WEEK  SKETCHES.     173 

Indeed,  in  the  course  of  the  morning, 
divers  old  "  tabbies  "  of  the  town  were  seen 
to  shake  their  heads,  and  heard  to  express 
their  firm  conviction  that  "Sam  Slowleaf  was 
neglecting  his  business  sadly." 

Strolling  on  to  the  hill  after  the  Derby  is 
over,  our  hungry  eyes  looking  in  vain  for  the 
"light-hearted  Lancer's"  hospitable  drag,  we 
suddenly  come  across  a  waggonette,  seated  in 
which,  revelling  in  pigeon-pie  and  lobster 
salad,  are  four  people,  who,  judging  by  their 
laughter  and  noise,  we  should  say  are  as 
happy  a  quartette  as  is  to  be  found  on  the 
course.  We  have  no  difficulty  in  recognizing 
the  bright  face  of  pretty  Mrs.  Slowleaf  peep- 
ing out  of  a  particularly  smart  new  bonnet. 
Next  to  her  is  another  very  smart  young 
lady,  who,  by  her  likeness  to  Mrs.  Sam,  we 
take  to  be  her  sister  ;  and  very  attentive  to 
the  sister  is  a  good-looking  young  fellow, 
who  is  evidently  very  sweet  in  that  quarter. 
Small  blame  to  him,  for  she  is  uncommonly 


174    THREE  DERBY  WEEK  SKETCHES. 

pretty,  is  Mrs.  Slowleaf's  sister.  Last  but  not 
least  is  Sam  himself,  got  up  regardless  of  ex- 
pense— white  hat,  blue  veil,  and  all  complete 
(won't  he  go  in  for  the  knock-' em-downs  by- 
and-by  ?).  He  greets  me  with  much  cordiality, 
for  don't  I  get  all  my  groceries  from  him? 
He  proceeds  to  tell  me  with  great  glee  about 
his  wife  and  "  Jannette,"  notwithstanding  the 
blushes  and  remonstrances  of  Mrs.  Sam. 

"  But  I  really  must  go  and  find  this  drag. 
So  good-bye,  Mrs.  Slowleaf ;  good-bye,  Sam. 
I  shall  look  for  you  both  on  the  Oaks  day; 
and  Mrs.  Slowleaf,  if  you  do  run  across 
1  Jannette,'  show  her  no  mercy  !  " 


THE  EUN  OF  THE  SEASON,  AND 

ITS  CONSEQUENCES. 


LETTER  No.  I. 

A  DAY  WITH  THE   SCEAMBLETONSHIEE. 

From  Nimrod,  Junior  (Mr.  James  Jerramy),  Bull  Hotel,  Scramble- 
ton,  to  the  Editor,  "  The  Daily  Gusher,"  Fleet  Street,  London. 

"I  THINK  I  announced,  in  my  last  contribution 
to  this  journal,  that  I  should  probably  next 
select  for  inspection  and  criticism  that  cele- 
brated pack  of  foxhounds,  the  '  Scrambleton- 
shire.'  I  have  kept  my  word,  as  I  hope  I 
invariably  do,  to  your  thousands — millions 
I  may  say — of  readers ;  and  you  shall  now 
hear  a  short  account  of  a  day  with  this 
well-known  pack. 


176  THE    RUN    OF    THE    SEASON, 

"  A  few  nights  ago  on  entering  the  coffee- 
room  of  the  first-rate  and  very  exclusive  club 
to  which  I  have  the  honour  to  belong,  for  the 
purpose  of  discussing  my  usual  before-dinner 
glass  of  sherry  and  peach  bitters  (I  mention 
this,  as  it  will  no  doubt  interest  many  of  my 
readers  to  know  that  I  never  touch  any  other 
bitters  but  peach,  and  I  strongly  advise  them 
to  try  it ;  it  is  very  far  superior  to  orange),  I 
there  ran  across  an  old  brother  sportsman 
doing  precisely  the  same  thing.  He  is  a  man 
on  whose  opinion  I  can  always  rely;  indeed 
as  regards  hunting,  I  cannot  pay  him  a  better 
compliment  in  saying  that  he  knows  nearly  as 
much  about  the  noble  science — as  Delme  Rad- 
cliffe  calls  it — as  your  humble  servant  himself. 
What  more  can  I  say? 

"'  You'  re  going  to  see  the  Scrambleton- 
shire,  are  you,  old  pal?'  said  he  in  his 
jolly  way.  i  Then  go  down  by  the  four 
o'clock  express  to  Scrambleton — best  train 
in  the  day — drive  to  the  "  Bull,"  mention 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  177 

my  name  to  the  landlord,  and  you'll  be  in 
clover  during  your  stay.7  So  saying,  my 
friend  swallowed  his  sherry .  and  bitters  at 
a  gulp,  and  nodding  farewell,  walked  out  of 
the  room. 

"  Last  Monday,  then,  saw  me  ensconced 
comfortably  in  a  first-class  carriage  of  the 
train  leaving  St.  Pancras  at  four  o'clock.  The 
evening  struck  me  as  feeling  rather  frosty, 
and  I  felt  the  sable  collar  and  cuffs  on  my 
great-coat  remarkably  pleasant  to  my  neck 
and  wrists.  Lighting  a  regalia  magnifico 
(one  of  a  box,  the  gift  of  my  noble  friend  the 
Viscount  Noodle,  and  which  I  should  say  must 
have  cost  his  lordship  at  least  ten  guineas  a 
pound),  and  taking  from  my  silver-mounted 
travelling-bag  the  Saturday  Review,  I  con- 
trived to  while  away  pleasantly  enough 
the  two  hours'  journey  from  London  to 
Scrambleton. 

"  Punctual  to  a  minute,  the  train  brought 
me  to  my  journey's  end,  and  picking  out  a 


178  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

fly  drawn  by  a  rare-shaped  chestnut,  with 
two  white  legs — evidently  an  old  hunter,  I 
should  say — I  drove  to  the  *'  Bull."  The  land- 
lord, Mr.  John  Smith,  required  no  mention 
of  my  friend's  name  as  an  inducement  for 
making  me  comfortable;  for  my  reputation, 
it  seems,  had  gone  before  me,  and  having 
heard  I  was  shortly  to  arrive  in  those  parts, 
and  guessing  I  should  use  his  house,  he  had 
not  only  kept  his  best  room  vacant  for  me, 
but  had  reserved  his  own  hunter  expressly 
for  my  use.  I  forthwith  expressed  a  wish 
that  he  would  give  me  his  company  at 
dinner  that  evening,  an  invitation  which  he 
gladly  accepted. 

"  Of  the  dinner,  I  can  only  say  the  soup 
was  of  the  clearest,  the  turbot  the  flakiest, 
the  beefsteak  the  tenderest,  and  the  hen 
pheasant  the  plumpest  I  ever  sat  down  to ; 
and  of  the  Perrier-Jouet,  all  I  can  say  to  my 
readers  is,  go  and  try  it.  My  host  proved  a 
perfect  Murray's  Handbook  in  himself,  and 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  179 

over  our  cigars  and  brandy-and-soda  told 
me  about  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
country. 

'"And    where   do   the   hounds   meet    to 
morrow?'       I     inquired,    lighting    a    fresh 
cigar. 

u'Ah!  you're  in  luck,  sir,  to-morrow,' 
replied  Mr.  Smith,  'for  they  go  to  Hazelby 
Manor,  the  seat — the  princely  seat,  I  may 
say — of  one  of  the  most  popular  and  affable 
gentlemen  in  the  county — John  Hazelby, 
Esq.  There  will  be  breakfast  for  all  comers, 
a  hearty  welcome,  and  a  sure  find ;  and 
you'll  most  likely  have  a  run  over  the  very 
cream  of  our  country.  It's  only  three  miles 
off;  so,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  will  ride  with 
you  and  show  you  the  way. 

"  Accepting  gladly  my  host's  kind  offer, 
and  bidding  him  good  night,  I  finished  my 
cigar  and  betook  myself  to  my  bedchamber 
forthwith,  the  better  to  insure  my  usual 
nerve  and  skill  the  next  day." 


180  THE    RUN   OF    THE    SEASON, 

"  Tuesday  morning  broke  beautifully  fine- 
perhaps,  if  anything,  a  trifle  too  bright ;  and 
nine  o'clock  saw  me  down  in  the  coffee-room, 
feeling  remarkably  fresh  and  well,  a  sure 
sign  of  the  Perrier- Jouet  of  the  previous  night 
having  been  good.  A  slight  breakfast — just 
an  egg  and  a  cup  of  coffee — did  me;  and 
at  a  quarter  to  ten  my  genial  host  appeared, 
and  with  a  'Now,  sir,  if  you're  ready,  we'll 
have  a  start,'  we  sallied  forth  to  the  hall 
door,  in  front  of  which  two  remarkably  good- 
looking  horses  were  being  led  up  and  down, 
and,  to  my  great  delight,  the  handsomest  one 
of  the  pair — a  brown,  with  a  white  star  on 
its  forehead — I  found,  was  my  mount  for 
the  day. 

"  Mr.  Smith  and  myself  then  mounting 
without  loss  of  time,  away  we  jogged  to  the 
meet.  Five-and-thirty  minutes  brought  us, 
in  company  with  sundry  other  scarlet  and 
black  coats,  to  the  lodge  gates  of  Hazelby, 
and  passing  through  a  splendid  avenue  of 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  181 

some  length,  we  arrived  in  front  of  the 
house,  which  I  may  here  remark  is  a  fine 
structure,  built  by  the  celebrated  Inigo  Jones. 
The  hounds  had  already  arrived,  and  were 
enjoying  a  roll  on  the  grass,  the  huntsmen 
and  whips  indulging  in  a  glass  of  something 
to  keep  the  cold  out,  which  the  master  of 
Hazelby  had  considerately  sent  out  to  them 
by  one  of  his  menials. 

"Giving  my  horse  to  Mr.  Smith's  man, 
who  had  been  sent  on  beforehand,  I  made 
my  way  to  the  house,  at  the  porch  of  which 
stood  as  fine  a  specimen  of  the  old  English 
gentleman  as  anyone  would  wish  to  see.  I 
had  no  difficulty  in  at  once  making  him  out 
to  be  Mr.  Hazelby  himself.  He  immediately, 
seeing  I  was  a  stranger,  invited  me  in  in  the 
kindest  manner,  and  ushered  me  into  the 
dining-room  himself.  Having  seen  me  seated, 
he  excused  himself  for  leaving,  as  he  said, 
to  see  about  other  strangers,  who  might  be 
too  shy  to  come  in  without  being  asked. 


182  THE   RUN   OF   THE   SEASON, 

"  A  splendid  repast  was  indeed  provided 
for  us,  to  which  I  did  ample  justice.  A 
sprightly  youth  sat  next  to  me,  whom 
I  speedily  discovered  was  Master  Thomas 
Hazelby,  the  eldest  son  of  our  generous  host, 
being  educated  at  Eton,  as  he  informed  me, 
and  now  enjoying  his  vacation.  He  gave  me 
the  soundest  advice,  young  as  he  was,  as 
regards  what  to  eat  and  drink ;  and,  when  I 
had  quite  done,  went  the  length  of  fetching 
with  his  own  hands,  from  the  sideboard,  a 
bottle  of  dry  curacoa — stuff,  he  quaintly  ob- 
served, which  would  make  my  hair  curl. 
Delightful,  high-spirited  youth  !  what  a 
treasure  he  must  be  to  his  worthy  father! 

"  I  must  not  take  leave  of  the  dejeuner 
without  a  word  for  the  room.  The  oak 
parlour,  as  it  is  called,  is  indeed  a  splendid 
apartment.  Hazelbys,  from  the  hands  of 
Vandyke,  Sir  Peter  Lely,  and  other  great 
painters,  looked  down  on  us  from  the  panels 
round  the  room ;  grim  old  Admiral  Hazelby, 


or 

Ul 
V) 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  183 

who  so  distinguished  himself  against  the 
Spanish  Armada,  scowled  at  everybody  from 
above  the  grand  old  carved  chimney-piece; 
whilst  small  pictures,  too  numerous  to  men- 
tion, by  Cuyp,  Vandervelde,  Teniers,  and 
others,  caught  the  eye  at  every  point.  I 
quite  regretted  leaving  the  grand  old  room, 
made  extra  picturesque  by  the  numerous  red 
coats  it  was  filled  with.  However,  I  tore 
myself  away  at  last,  and  with  Mr.  Smith  at 
my  elbow,  wended  my  way  outside,  to  view, 
under  his  able  guidance,  the  great  guns  of 
the  hunt. 

"  To  begin  with  the  gallant  master,  Cap- 
tain Hardman;  who  does  not  know  him? 
Who  turns  out  a  better  team,  or  drives  them 
better  at  the  meets  of  the  Four-in-hand  Club, 
than  he  does,  I  should  like  to  know?  And 
does  he  not  look,  as  he  is,  a  model  of  a  master 
of  hounds,  as,  faultlessly  got  up,  he  throws 
morsels  of  biscuit,  produced  from  his  coat 
pocket,  to  his  favourites  of  the  pack  ?  He  in 


184  THE   RUN   OF   THE   SEASON, 

the  most  courteous  manner  pointed  out  to  me 
the  .celebrities  amongst  his  hounds,  which  I 
suppose,  take  them  as  a  whole,  are  as  perfect 
a  lot  as  ever  were  got  together.  Where  too, 
I  ask,  can  you  match  his  huntsman,  Tom 
Larrup?  I  am  sure  I  could  not  tell  you. 
Talking  to  the  worthy  master,  I  discern  Lord 
Buttercup  and  his  two  sons,  the  Honbles. 
Hugh  and  Adolphus  Cowslip.  His  lordship, 
I  am  informed,  is  a  staunch  supporter  of  the 
hunt,  and  always  has  a  fox  ready  for  them 
when  they  meet  at  Cowslip  Castle.  Then 
there  is  the  charming  Lady  Blanche  Blaze- 
away,  and  her  husband,  Mr.  Blazeaway,  both 
hard  riders;  Lady  Blanche  mounted  on  a 
splendid  bay  hunter.  With  her  is  another 
equally  charming  young  lady,  whom  I  find 
on  inquiry  is  Miss  Lucy  Hazelby,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  squire.  She,  too,  is  magnifi- 
cently mounted.  Captain  Welter,  the  well- 
known  steeplechase  rider,  is  here  too,  and 
with  him  on  a  visit  is  Mr.  Teddy  Bobson, 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  185 

also  well  known  on  the  flagged  course. 
Messrs.  Crasher,  Smasher,  Swellcove,  Tet- 
terby,  Brag,  Crane,  Batterboy,  Rasper, 
Bludyer,  Foozle — all  are  pointed  out  to  me 
as  good  men  and  true ;  and  many  others,  too 
numerous  to  mention. 

"  And  now  the  order  is  given  to  make  a 
move.  So  we  trot  across  the  park,  to  draw 
the  belts  round  it.  My  horse,  being  disagree- 
ably fresh,  proceeded  to  kick;  however,  my 
superior  seat  in  the  saddle  soon  told  him  it 
was  mere  waste  of  time  trying  to  get  rid 
of  me. 

"  Our  first  venture  being  no  go,  we  trot  on 
to  a  favourite  wood  of  the  squire's,  called  the 
Dean,  where  the  head  keeper  (a  most  superior 
kind  of  man)  informs  us  that  we  are  sure  to 
find ;  and  scarcely  are  the  words  out  of  his 
mouth  before  Reynard  is  away,  in  view  of  the 
whole  field. 

"  Tom  Larrup  has  his  hounds  on  to  him  in 
a  trice.  A  big  fence  seems  to  stop  half  the 


186  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

field.  Lady  Blazeaway,  Miss  Hazelby,  and  a 
hard-riding  young  cavalry  officer,  Mr.  Chester, 
of  the  109th  Lancers,  charge  it  in  line.  My 
horse,  breaking  away,  jumps  it  so  big  that  he 
nearly  unships  even  me.  I  look  round. 
Three  scarlet  coats  are  down,  kicking  about 
on  their  backs  on  the  greensward  like  three 
lively  turtles ;  three  horses  galloping  away 
riderless.  A  shrill  voice  holloas  out  just 
behind  me,  l  Forrard  !  forrard  !  forrard  ! '  It 
is  the  hope  of  the  house  of  Hazelby,  Master 
Tom,  sending  his  pony  along  as  hard  as  ever 
he  can  go.  A  true  chip  of  the  old  block 
that.  The  two  ladies,  the  gallant  master, 
Mr.  Chester,  Messrs.  Crasher,  Smasher,  and 
Welter,  are  taking  everything  in  their  line. 
I  need  scarcely  tell  my  readers  Nimrod, 
junior,  is  doing  the  same.  The  pace  is  simply 
awful,  only  nine  or  ten  people  near  the 
hounds. 

"  We   cross   a  ploughed   field.     I   hear  a 
cry  behind  me.     It  is  Master  Tom  Hazelby 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  187 

again — in  trouble  this  time,  his  pony  quite 
beat  and  declining  to  move.  Perhaps  he 
will  die.  Ought  I  to  leave  him  in  dis- 
tress the  eldest  son  of  my  genial  entertainer 
of  the  morning?  I  think  not.  With  long- 
ing eyes  I  look  at  the  diminishing  figures 
of  the  hard  riders  of  the  hunt,  and  as  they 
disappear  over  a  fence  on  the  brow  of  a  dis- 
tant hill,  I  slowly  turn  round  my  horse,  as 
reluctant  as  myself,  to  do  the  good  Sama- 
ritan to  my  young  friend,  Master  Tom.  That 
young  gentleman  is  inclined  to  shed  tears,  as 
he  thinks  his  pony  is  going  to  die;  but  a 
little  attention,  rubbing  his  ears,  etc.,  soon 
brings  him  round,  and  we  both  get  into  the 
high-road  together.  Master  Thomas  then  puts 
me  on  the  right  way  back  to  Scrambleton, 
whilst  he  goes  down  another  round  towards 
Hazelby. 

"  I  reach  my  quarters  at  the  "Bull"  after 
an  hour  and  a  half's  ride ;  and  in  about  half 
an  hour  after  my  host,  Mr.  Smith,  arrives, 


188  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

with  a  dirty  coat,  and  his  horse  lame.  They 
have  had  a  wonderful  run,  he  tells  me — an 
hour  and  twenty  minutes,  with  scarcely  a 
check,  winding  up  with  a  kill  in  the  open. 
The  gallant  and  popular  master,  I  regretted 
to  hear,  was  not  there  to  see  the  finish,  having 
received  a  very  bad  fall  early  in  the  run,  from 
which  I  trust  he  will  soon  recover.  Miss 
Hazelby  got  the  brush,  which  I  hear  she 
fairly  won  by  her  gallant  horsemanship.  I 
only  regret  that  I  was  prevented  seeing  more 
of  the  run  ;  still,  what  I  did  see  of  it  enables 
me  to  inform  my  readers,  without  the  least 
flattery,  that  Scrambletonshire  boasts  as  fine 
a  pack  of  hounds,  as  good  a  master,  and  as 
fine  a  lot  of  riders  as  it  has  ever  been  my 
luck  to  witness. 

"  Just  as  I  was  sitting  down  to  dinner,  a 
note  was  placed  in  my  hands,  which  proved 
on  opening  to  be  from  Squire  Hazelby,  thank- 
ing me  for  my  kindness  to  his  son,  and 
hoping  I  would  come  over  and  dine  and  sleep 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  189 

the  next  night;  not  only  that,  but  kindly 
offering  to  mount  me  the  following  day,  and 
have  another  turn  with  the  Scrambletonshire 
hounds.  Need  I  say  I  accepted  his  hospitable 
offer  with  the  utmost  alacrity. 

"  Next  week  my  readers  may  look  out  for 
another  and  fuller  account  of  the  Scramble- 
tonshire and  their  doings  from  the  pen  of 
their  faithful  servant, 

"  NIMROD,  JUNIOR." 


190  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 


LETTER  No.  II. 

From  John  Hazelby,  Hazelby  Manor,  Scrambleton,  to  Major 
General  Tallboys,  Army  and  Navy  Club,  St.  James's  Square, 
London. 

"  MY  DEAR  GEOFFREY, 

"  My  letters  to  you  are,  as  a  rule,  of 
the  very  stupidest  description,  as  you  know, 
generally,  I  think,  merely  asking  how  you 
are,  where  you  are,  and  when  you  are 
coming  down  to  see  us.  This  time,  though, 
I  fancy  I  shall  prove  a  little  more  interesting 
than  usual,  for  I  really  have  a  bit  of  news  for 
you  that  will  both  astonish  and  please  you— 
at  least  I  trust  so. 

"  I  must  begin  at  the  very  beginning,  so 
here  goes.  You  must  know,  then,  that  the 
hounds  met  here  yesterday  for  the  second 
time  this  year.  I  picked  out  this  week  for 
asking  them  to  come,  as  the  house  was  full  of 
people,  including  Tom  home  from  Eton  ;  and 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  191 

the  hunt  ball  at  Scrambleton  coming  off  to- 
morrow night  made  everything  fit  in  very 
nicely,  and  provided  lots  of  fun  for  my 
guests. 

"  We  gave  everybody  to  eat  and  drink — 
not  that  I  like  these  hunt  breakfasts  as  a 
rule,  with  unlimited  champagne  and  cura9oa, 
and  all  sorts  of  liquors  flowing  like  water. 
However,  that  wilful  daughter  of  mine,  and 
god- daughter  of  yours — to  wit,  Miss  Lucy — 
would  have  it  so ;  so  the  thing  was  done,  and 
it  always  is,  I  find,  if  she  so  disposes.  Of  that 
young  lady  more  anon. 

"  Well,  there  was  a  big  field,  as  there  always 
is  so  soon  after  Christmas;  and  everybody 
having  eaten  and  drunk  to  their  satisfaction, 
away  we  all  started — old  Ealph  Topper,  of 
Barley  Hill  Farm,  riding  up  alongside  of 
me,  and  saying,  much  to  my  amusement, 
'Well,  squire,  I  don't  know  how  you  feel, 
but  /  feel  as  if  I  could  ride  over  any 
mortal  thing — I  do.'  I  am  told  he  was 


192  THE    RUN    OF    THE    SEASOX, 

quite  as  good  as  his  word,  and  old  as 
he  is,  and  very  heavy,  went  out  of  his  way 
to  jump  three  brand-new  gates  in  the  course 
of  the  day. 

"  Well,    we    drew    the    places   all    round 
the    park,    but    to    no    purpose,    and    then 
we  trotted  off  to  the  Dean.     (You  remember 
the  wood  called  the  Dean,  where,  when  you 
were  shooting  here  last  year,  we  had  a  sweep 
for  the  woodcocks?     Three  were  killed,  and 
you    killed    them   all,    you   dog,    you!    and 
pocketed  all  our  money  in  consequence.)     I 
give  you  my  word,  the  hounds  had  not  been 
in  the  cover  two  minutes  before  away  went  a 
fox  before  the  whole  field.     I  never  ride  now, 
as  you  know;  so  away  I  went  down  the  road 
as  hard  as  I  could  split,  followed  by  about 
three  parts  of  the  field,  as  far  as  I  could  see. 
After  about  two  miles  I  branched  off  to  the 
left,  through  Joe  Appleby's  (my  tenant)  rick- 
yard,  through  the  orchard  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  through  the  gate  at  the  further  end, 


AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  193 

and  here  I  saw  the  whole  thing  most  beauti- 
fully. There  were  two  hounds  running  like 
smoke,  as  the  saying  is,  and  only  about  ten 
people  near  them  ;  and  close  to  them,  though 
he  had  had  a  fall  already,  as  I  could  easily 
see,  was  Tom  Larrup,  the  huntsman.  And, 
by  Jove !  who  do  you  think  were  pretty  close 
behind  him?  Why,  none  other  but  my 
daughter  Lucy,  and  that  scamp  young  Will 
Chester,  who  is  staying  with  me !  I  had  told 
off  Headstall,  the  coachman,  to  stick  to  Miss 
Lucy  all  day,  and  this  was  the  result. 

"  Now  they  come  to  a  double  post  and  rails. 
Tom  Larrup  pulls  his  horse  up,  and  goes  in 
and  out.  '  Surely,'  I  think,  'that  young  ruffian 
will  never  let  Lucy  go  at  the  rails  ? '  I  am  very 
much  mistaken,  it  seems,  for  I  see  him  ride  at 
them  fifty  miles  an  hour,  and  coolly  turn 
round  in  his  saddle  on  landing,  looking  how 
Lucy  will  do  them.  '  Stop,  Lucy,  stop! — I 
implore  you!'  I  shouted  frantically.  She 
never  heard  me,  or  if  she  did  took  no  notice, 


194  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

for  the  next  moment  she  was  in  the  air,  and 
the  next  sailing  away,  hands  down,  the  other 
side.  I  waited  for  no  more.  As  Lucy  disap- 
peared over  the  next  fence,  I  turned  tail  and 
betook  myself  to  the  road  once  more,  and 
never  saw  the  hounds  again  all  day. 

"  I  won't  bore  you  with  the  distance  they 
went,  where  they  ran  to,  who  rode  well, 
or  who  funked  ;  it  suffices  to  say  that  after 
one  of  the  best  runs  folks  ever  remember 
in  this  county,  the  hounds  killed  their  fox 
handsomely  in  the  open.  Only  five  souls 
were  up  at  the  finish  besides  the  huntsman 
and  first  whip.  Two  out  of  the  five  were 
Miss  Lucy  and  Master  William  Chester, 
and  it  is  admitted  on  all  sides  that  that 
pretty  pair  had  far  and  away  the  best  of  it. 
Lucy  was  duly  presented  with  the  brush, 
as  you  may  imagine,  by  the  admiring  Tom 
Larrup;  Hardman,  the  master,  I  regret  to 
say,  not  being  there,  having  had  a  bad  fall. 
I  must  give  that  worthy  an  extra  fiver  at 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  195 

the  end  of  the  season,  I  think,  to  celebrate 
the  event. 

"I,  as  I  told  you,  never  saw  the  hounds 
again  after  turning  back  into  the  road.  So  I 
turned  my  horse's  head  and  rode  slowly 
home,  and  mooned  about  the  home  farm  all 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

"  Now  comes  a  nice  story.  About  four 
o'clock,  having  retired  to  my  sanctum  for  a 
quiet  cigar,  I  was  sitting  in  my  cozy  arm- 
chair, half  asleep  half  awake,  when  the  door 
opens  suddenly,  and  in  comes  Mistress  Lucy, 
waving  the  fox's  brush  in  triumph  over  her 
head.  Well,  you  know,  Geoffrey,  of  course 
I  tried  to  blow  her  up — so  unwomanly,  etc., 
etc.  But  it  wouldn't  do ;  I  was  forced  to 
turn  round  and  say  I  was  immensely  pleased 
with  the  whole  performance.  So  I  was,  really  ; 
but  I  remembered  how  her  poor  mother 
detested  ladies  riding  to  hounds. 

"  Well,  after  I  had  heard  all  about  the  run, 
Lucy  suddenly  rang  the  bell,  saying,  '  I  am 


196  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

going  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  in  here  to-night 
with  my  own  dear  old  Daddy — aren't  I, 
Dads?'  ('This  is  something  new,'  I  thought. 
However,  I  kept  that  to  myself.)  '  Robert,' 
said  she,  when  the  footman  appeared,  'bring 
the  tea  in  here,  please,  and — and  bring  in 
three  cups.  Perhaps  some  one  else  might 
come  in.' 

"  I  saw  Robert  stare  when  he  left  the 
room. 

"'My  dear  child,  why  three  cups?'  I 
began.  '  I  don't  want  any  of  the  other  people 
invading  my  room.' 

" '  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  they'll  come  in, 
Daddy  dear.  I  only  ordered  enough  cups  in 
case  they  might.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  see.  Oh,  yes]  I  replied,  though  I 
could  not  understand  all  the  same. 

"  The  tea  came  in,  and  Miss  Lucy,  sitting 
on  my  knee,  poured  it  out. 

" '  Daddy,'  said  she,  after  a  pause,  '  don't 
you  think  Will — I  mean  Mr.  Chester — nice?' 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  197 

" '  Yes,  Loo/  I  said,  c  I  think  lie  is  a  nice 
young  fellow  enough.  Why,  do  you  think 
he's  nice?' 

" ( Yes/  replied  Miss  Lucy,  looking  down 
into  her  tea  cup,  '  I  think  he's  a  nice  young 
fellow  enough/ 

"  The  sly  puss  !  repeating  my  very  words. 
4 What's  in  the  wind  now?'  I  thought.  Then 
came  a  pause — a  long  one — nothing  heard 
but  the  clinking  of  Lucy's  spoon  against  her 
cup. 

"  '  Daddies/  she  began  again. 

"'Well,  love?'  I  replied. 

"  '  You  heard  me  say  Mr.  Chester  got  the 
best  of  it  considerably  to-day,  didn't  you, 
Daddies?' 

"  '  Did  you?  Oh,  I  had  'forgotten  that/  I 
rejoined.  Poor  little  girl !  I  knew  now  what 
was  coming,  Geoffrey,  and  thought  I  would 
get  a  rise  out  of  her,  though  it  was  rather 
cruel,  I  admit. 

"Another  pause,  during  which  Miss  Lucy 


198  THE   EUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

fidgets  very  much  on  my  knee,  and  stirs 
the  tea  in  her  cup  in  the  most  unnecessary 
manner. 

"  '  Daddies,'  said  she  all  of  a  sudden,  'what 
do  you  think  I  heard  that  tipsy  old  Ralph 
Topper  say  to  another  farmer? — meaning  us, 
Dad;  Will — I  mean  Mr.  Chester — and  I. 

Well,  he  said,  "Those  two  seem  made " 

He  meant  us,  Daddies — us,  Mr.  Chester  and 
I;  you  must  recollect  that,  you  know. 
"Those  two  seem  made  for  one  another." 
We  both  heard  it,  Daddies ;  that  was  the  best 
of  it.  Wasn't  it  funny  of  him  ? '  She  had  her 
face  close  to  mine,  and  I  could  feel  something 
very  like  a  tear  trickling  down  her  cheek. 

"  'And  what  did  you  and  Chester  think?' 
I  inquired  gently. 

"  '  We — we — we — bo-o-o-th  agreed  with 
him,  Daddies.  And  he's  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife,  and  I  said  yes,  Daddy;  and — and  I 
told  him  I  would  ask — you — and — you  will 
let  us,  won't  you,  Daddies  darling?  And— 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  199 

and — and — that's  who  the  third  cup  is  for, 
Daddies.     And — and — I  think  he's  outside.' 

"  And  with  that  she  jumped  up,  Geoffrey, 
opened  the  door,  and  there,  sure  enough,  in 
the  passage  sat  Master  William  Chester,  with 
his  head  hanging  over  his  shoulder,  fast 
asleep.  He  pretty  quick  woke  up,  I  can  tell 
you.  His  mistress  then  dragged  him  in, 
looking  rather  sheepish,  and  the  three  of  us 
sat  down  to  tea  together. 

"  To  say  I  was  astonished  isn't  the  word — 
beats  cock-fighting,  donvt  it?  Joking  apart,  I 
am  really  pleased,  for,  besides  being  a  very 
nice  fellow,  he  is  well  off,  and  will  be  much 
better  off  some  day.  Of  course,  the  affair  was 
known  all  over  the  house  before  dinner  time. 
I  shall  miss  dear  Lucy  dreadfully,  but  still  one 
must  expect  that  sort  of  thing.  As  I  write 
this,  over  my  after-breakfast  cigar,  I  see  from 
iny  sanctum  window  the  pair  of  lovers  just 
going  for  a  stroll.  Beauty  is  just  lighting 
her  Beast's  pipe  for  him  with  a  fusee ;  and, 


200  THE   RUN   OF   THE   SEASON, 

by  Jove!  he's  giving  her  a  kiss.  Write  by 
return,  old  friend,  and  say  what  you  think  of 
the  whole  proceedings ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
say  that  you  will  be  here  the  same  day  as 
your  letter.  Lucy  bids  me  tell  you  that  if 
you  don't  come  down  at  once  she  will  never 
forgive  you. 

"Always  yours, 

"JOHN  HAZELBY." 


AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  201 


LETTER  No.  III. 

From  Miss  Hazelly,  Hazelly  Manor,  Scranibleton,  to  Mrs.  Charles 
Sinclair,  Curzon  Street,  May  fair,  London. 

"  MY  DEAEEST  VIOLET, 

"Do  you  remember,  dear,  the  day 
you  were  married,  just  four  months  ago, 
telling  me,  the  last  thing  before  you  started 
off  for  the  honeymoon,  that  you'd  bet  me  a 
dozen  pairs  of  gloves  I  should  be  married 
before  another  year  was  out?  You've  won 
your  bet,  my  dear,  for  though  I  am  not 
actually  married,  I  am  engaged  to  be.  The 
same  thing,  isn't  it,  Violet  ?  His  name's  Will 
Chester,  and  he's  in  the  109th  Lancers.  He's 
called  'Bill'  in  the  regiment,  but  /  call  him 
Will,  and  William  when  I  want  to  be  very 
cold  and  he  wants  snubbing.  I'm  not  a 
gushing  damsel,  as  you  know,  Vi.  dear,  but 
he's  so  nice ;  in  fact,  quite  the  nicest.  I  am 
sure  you'll  say  so  when  you  see  him. 


202  THE    RUN    OF    THE    SEASON, 

"The  hounds  met  here  yesterday.  We 
found  at  the  Dean ;  had  what  my  Will  calls  a 
nailing  good  run ;  he  and  I  cut  'em  all  down. 
I  got  the  brush,  and  Will  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife  before  we  got  home.  Knocked  all  of  a 
heap  he  said  he  was  by  my  horsemanship.  I 
accepted  him  with  much  pleasure,  I  assure 
you,  though  of  course  I  did  not  tell  him  so. 
When  we  got  home,  I  went  straight  to  papa's 
4  den,'  and  told  him  all.  Then  Will  came  in, 
and  we  all  three  sat  down  to  tea  together. 

"  You've  never  seen  my  young  man,  so  I'll 
describe  him.  He's  tall — six  foot  two  in  his 
boots — dark,  with  a  slight  moustache;  very 
good  looking  (at  least,  /  think  so);  dresses 
remarkably  well,  not  affecting  in  the  least 
the  horsey  attire  one  so  often  sees  amongst 
men  in  the  cavalry,  and  which  I  detest;  and 
you  should  see  him  ride,  Vi.  He  can  go,  I  can 
tell  you.  He  says  he's  very  domestic ;  how- 
ever, we  shall  see  about  that.  Don't  you 
think,  Vi.  dear,  he  sounds  nice?  I  assure 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  203 

you  he  is  the Oh,  no,  I  won't ;   I  can't 

express  my  feelings  properly.  I  don't  quite 
know  whether  to  keep  him  in  the  army  or 
not.  What  do  you  think,  dear?  I  am 
inclined  to  think  not.  I  think  I  should 
like  to  live  in  the  country,  so  that  I  could 
have  him  all  to  my  own  self,  just  running 
up  to  town  for  a  couple  of  months  in  the 
season,  so  as  to  let  Will  see  his  soldier 
friends,  and  take  me  to  Ascot  and  the  opera 
occasionally.  Don't  you  think  that  a  good 
arrangement  for  both  parties?  Write  imme- 
diately, my  dear,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  it  all,  and  give  me  the  benefit  of 
your  experience. 

"  How  is  your  lord  and  master?  Have 
you  got  him  well  in  hand  still?  We  are 
going  to  have  some  theatricals  here  soon. 
'  Uncle's  Will'  is  to  be  one  of  the  pieces. 
Will  and  I  are  to  be  husband  and  wife  in  it. 
They  have  a  quarrel  in  it,  and  then  make  it 
up.  We  begin  rehearsing  to-morrow,  so  we 


204  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

shall  be  quarrelling  and  making  friends  again 
every  day  for  the  next  fortnight.  Will  says 
the  making  up,  he  thinks,  will  be  very  nice. 
Will  you  and  your  good  man  come  down 
here  for  the  said  theatricals?  Do,  there's  a 
dear.  It  was  very  unkind  of  you  both  not 
to  come  for  Christmas  as  I  asked  you.  You 
must  come  now.  Tell  that  husband  of  yours 
I  insist  upon  it.  Good-bye  now,  my  dearest 
Vi.,  and  believe  me,  with  fondest  love, 
"  Ever  yours  affectionately, 

"  LUCY. 

"  P.S. — Lucy  Chester  won't  sound  bad,  will 
it?  I  have  written  Lucy  Hazelby  and  Lucy 
Chester  side  by  side  ever  so  many  times, 
and  think  Lucy  Chester  sounds  and  looks 
ever  so  much  the  best." 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  205 


LETTER  No.  IV. 

From  William  Chester,  W9th  Lancers,  Hazelby  Manor ,  Scramble , 
ton,  to  the  Honourable  George  Sabretache,  St.  James's  Street, 
London. 

"  MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

"  How  are  you  and  your  broken 
leg  getting  on,  old  chap  ?  We  had  a  deuced 
good  run  yesterday,  and  your  brown  horse 
carried  me  like  a  bird  ;  so  well,  indeed,  that 
if  you'll  take  three  hundred  for  him,  say  so 
and  book  him  to  me.  That's  not  all  I've  got 
to  tell  you,  my  bould  sojer  boy.  What  do 
you  say  to  my  being  engaged  to  be  married 
to  your  old  flame  (you  were  hit  rather  hard 
under  the  wing ;  you  know  you  were,  you  old 
beggar),  Lucy  Hazelby  ?  If  you  had  seen  her 
ride  as  I  did  yesterday,  you'd  have  gone  off 
your  head.  I  was  done  for  completely,  and 
was  obliged  to  let  her  know  the  state  of  my 
heart  as  we  rode  home  together.  I  kept 
humming  and  hawing,  and  talking  all  manner 


206  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON, 

of  bosh,  till  we  got  within  a  rnile  of  home ; 
then  I  out  with  it  at  last,  and  proposed  and 
was  accepted. 

"By  Jove!  you  should  have  seen  her 
when  her  horse  was  rather  cooked,  and 
we  came  to  a  fence  you  simply  couldn't 
see  through.  I  holloaed  out,  '  I  don't  like 
the  fence,  Miss  Hazelby.  Do  you  think  your 
horse  would  do  the  gate  after  me  ? '  '  He'll 
have  to,'  said  she  in  an  instant.  Your  brown 
horse  never  touched  it,  and  before  I  could  say 
knife,  she  was  after  me,  her  mare  hitting  it 
hard.  I  could  have  hugged  her  on  the  spot. 
I  was  a  gone  coon  from  that  moment, 
George.  Two  fields  further  on,  thank  Heaven, 
we  killed  our  fox,  and  Lucy,  of  course,  got 
the  brush. 

"  I    had    it   out   with   the   governor   that 
very  evening  before  dinner.     He  was  quite 
agreeable — what   a  fine   old    boy    he   is  !— 
so  it's  all  settled,  and  there's  nothing  to  do 
now  but  to  fix  the  day.     Everybody  seems 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  207 

pleased,  which  is  agreeable  to  iny  feelings; 
Tom  Hazelby,  Lucy's  young  brother  at 
Eton,  being  especially  so.  The  young  sinner 
drank  quite  as  much  champagne  as  was  good 
for  him,  drinking  our  healths  and  his  own  at 
dinner  last  night,  and  getting  me  into  a  corner, 
had  the  cheek  to  offer  to  ride  my  horses  any 
day,  in  case  Lucy  and  I  did  not  want  to 
hunt.  I  think  I  see  the  young  blackguard 
bucketing  them  without  mercy  all  over  the 
place.  Get  your  damaged  leg  right  as  soon 
as  you  can,  old  man,  for  I  shall  try  and  bring 
the  event  off  in  as  short  a  time  as  possible, 
and  you'll  have  to  be  best  man. 

"  I  can't  write  any  more,  for  I  hear  distant 
music  from  the  piano  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  I  must  there  at  once,  for  I  can  guess  who 
is  the  performer.  So  good-bye,  old  fellow. 
Write  by  return,  and  congratulate  the  hap- 
piest man  in  England — to  wit, 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  WILLIAM  CHESTER." 


208  THE   RUN   OF   THE    SEASON. 


LETTER  No.  V. 

From  Tom  Hatelby,  Hazelby  Manor  and  Eton  College,  Bucks, 
to  Reginald  Delamere,  Benderby  Hall,  Oxon,  also  of  Eton 
College,  Bucks. 

"  DEAR  MINOR, 

"The  guv.  has  just  told  me  that 
he'll  be  delighted  if  you'll  come  and  spend 
the  rest  of  the  holidays  here,  so  pack  up  your 
traps,  my  boy,  and  come  at  once.  Larks  of 
all  description  are  going  on;  hunting  and 
shooting  all  day,  theatricals  or  dances  some- 
where every  night.  You  need'nt  bring  your 
horse  with  you ;  the  guv.  will  mount  you. 

"  We  had  the  best  fun  yesterday  I  ever  had 
in  my  life.  The  hounds,  as  you  may  have 
read  in  the  Field,  met  here.  The  ancient 
gave  a  regular  breakfast — champagne  going 
like  water,  sir ;  cigars  handed  round  to 
every  one  before  they  went  away  ;  in  short 
everything  tip-top.  Robert,  the  footman 
(you  remember  the  cheeky  beggar,  don't 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  209 

you?),  brought  the  weeds  round  to  me,  and 
said,  'I  suppose  you  won't  'ave  one,  will 
you,  Master  Tom  ?  '  Didn't  I,  though  ?  The 
governor  had  started,  so  I  told  him  to  go 
to  the  devil,  and  collared  a  couple  of  'em. 
Capital  weeds  they  were  too ;  but  the  guv. 
likes  his  a  trifle  fuller  flavoured  than  those 
you  and  I  get  at  Kitty  Prayer's,  arid  before 
the  day  was  out  I  found  they  did  not  suit 
my  constitution  quite  so  well  as  those  of  hers. 
Nothing  like  getting  used  to  one  brand,  and 
sticking  to  it,  I  find. 

"  Well,  away  we  went.  My  hunter  was  as 
fresh  as  paint,  and  went  bucking  and  kicking 
all  over  the  place  directly  he  got  on  the  grass. 
We  found  almost  directly  at  a  wood  of  ours, 
called  the  Dean,  and  off  we  started  as  hard  as 
we  could  split.  Cad  Brown  was  out,  and 
funked  the  very  first  fence.  I  wish  you  had 
seen  him.  I'll  tell  all  the  fellows  in  his 
dame's  when  I  get  back.  My  pony  jumped 
it  as  easily  as  possible.  Well,  the  end  of  it 


210  THE    RUN    OF    THE    SEASON, 

was  that,  owing  to  the  awful  pace,  and  not 
being  quite  up  to  my  weight,  my  pony 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  ploughed 
field.  I  really  thought  he  was  going  to 
die.  I  longed  for  a  second  horse,  but  it 
was  no  use  wishing,  so  I  had  to  go  home. 
You  should  have  seen  my  sister  ride  ;  she 
got  the  brush  when  they  killed,  which  they 
did  in  the  open,  after  a  tremendous  run. 
You'll  see  it  in  the  Field  next  week,  if 
you  look. 

"  That  very  evening,  Will  Chester,  of  the 
109th  Lancers,  who  is  staying  here,  and 
who  beat  every  one  in  the  run,  popped  the 
question  to  my  sister,  and  they  are  engaged. 
Such  a  jolly  chap!  He's  going  to  mount 
me  to-morrow  on  his  chestnut  mare,  '  Kate 
Kearney/  The  guv.  remonstrated;  but,  as 
he  says,  *  a  baby  in  arms  could  ride  her.'  He 
also  told  the  old  'un  I  was  a  workman. 
That's  a  compliment  from  a  man  like  that, 
ain't  it?  He  and  I  and  Loo  are  going  to 


AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES.  211 

have  a  rat-hunt  in  the  barn  this  afternoon. 
We're  not  going  to  tell  the  other  people  in 
the  house.  Of  course,  I  twig  it  all,  and  shall 
shut  my  eyes  to  all  that  goes  on.  A  precious 
bit  of  rat-hunting  Lucy  and  he'll  do,  I  guess. 
The  gong's  just  gone  for  lunch,  so  bye-bye, 
old  chap.  Write  and  say  which  day  you'll 
come. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"  T.  HAZELBY. 

"P.S.     How's  that  old  sap,  your  major? 
Hope  I  shan't  be  his  fag  next  half." 


212  THE    RUN    OF    THE    SEASON, 


LETTER  No.  VI. 

From  Joseph   Binns,  butler,  Hazelby  Manor,   to  Morgan  Price, 
butler,  150,  Eaton  Square,  London,  8.W. 

"DEAR  TAFFY, 

"  I  hope  this  finds  you  none  the 
worse  for  Christmas  festivities,  wich  it  finds 
me  all  right  bar  a  suspishon  of  gout,  wich  is 
only  natchural.  I  have  a  commission  I  wish 
you  would  egsecute  for  me  when  convenient. 
I  must  tell  you  our  eldest  dauter  has  just 
made  a  match  of  it,  with  a  young  kavalry 
officer  who  is  staying  with  us.  It  was  only 
give  out  last  night,  but  I've  seen  it  coming 
on  some  time.  She  is  a  sweet  amyable  girl, 
and  me  and  the  other  domestics  wish  to  mark 
our  approval  of  the  match  by  making  her  a 
slight  present.  I  think  a  silver  tea-pot, 
cream-jug,  and  sugar-basen  would  be  about 
the  ticket,  so  I  shall  be  obligated  to  you  if  you 
would  kindly  look  out  for  a  set  of  the  same, 
to  soot  the  occasion  Let  me  know  the 


AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES.  213 

figger,  and  I  will  send  you  cash  by  return. 
I  need  scarcely  say  that,  under  the  sircum- 
stances,  money  is  no  object.  I  should  like 
the  pattern  of  the  articles  to  be  strickly 
anteek,  for,  as  you  are  awair,  nothing  modern 
goes  down  nowerdays.  Me  and  the  family 
shan't  be  in  town  until  just  before  the  Darby, 
I  expect ;  but  when  I  do  come  up,  you  may 
expect  an  early  call  from  yours  truly.  And 
if  you  and  your  guverner  haven't  finished  all 
that  curious  old  brown  sherry  of  his  I 
admired  so  much  the  last  time  I  was  at  your 
place,  I  shall  be  glad  to  crack  a  quiet  bottle 
with  you  some  day,  and  talk  over  old  times. 
Hoping  my  commission  won't  put  you  much 
out  of  the  way, 

"  I  remane, 

"  Toot  ar  voo  (as  the  French  say), 
"JOSEPH  BINNS. 

"  To  Mr.  Morgan  Price." 


W.   P.    SPALDING,   PRINTER,   43,   SIDNEY   STREET,   CAMBRIDGE. 


YB   1078! 


